


The Death Of Samantha

by Savageandwise



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Age Difference, Don't listen to the title. Not a death fic, F/M, Lots, M/M, McLennon, Reincarnation, Sort of original character - Freeform, This is ooc, Work of fiction, and a piece of shit fic, kidfic sort of, lots of smut, not my take on reality, present day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-05-08 01:06:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14683269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: What if someone came up to Paul and said the love he lost was back? What if he got a second chance to tell John how he felt? What if things weren't as simple as that?Paul's Lost Weekend 2018. Despite the title this isn't a deathfic in any way, shape or form.





	1. The Note She Slipped Him

**Author's Note:**

> This is something a bit different. I always worry an original character might turn out Mary Sueish but the challenge of writing John in a different body as well as writing Old Paul was too good for me to say no.
> 
> Please let me know if I should continue!

She was just a girl at a party. Just a waitress serving drinks at some do of Stella’s in New York. When she slipped him a note he should have let it flutter to the ground, should have given her that vague, practiced smile and then ignored her. She must have known she was risking her job doing it. Later, he learned she was the sort of person who didn't care about playing it safe. She didn't make any particular impression on him. He supposed she was of medium height, if he had to guess he'd say mixed of Asian descent, dark hair twisted into a knot on top of her head. That was all he remembered about her.

_When we met I told you I'd make you play something so you spent ages learning “Twenty Flight Rock”. Mike was angry you wouldn't let him near the wireless till you'd learnt it. You told me I had my guitar strung wrong. I know you won't believe me but it's true. We had our first real kiss in Hamburg in a church. And you left me in India._

That's what the note said. There was a number and a name: Samantha.

Paul thought it was a sick joke. His stomach was churning, his head light, it was silly. Fans had been coming up to him for decades telling him garbage, it wasn't even the first time someone claimed to have a message from John. He wanted to have her booted from the premises. But when he found Stella to point her out he'd changed his tune.

“I'm feeling a bit poorly. Make my excuses, will you?” he asked. He'd come without Nancy who was visiting a friend in L.A. but the driver was just outside, waiting to take him home.

Stella was upset at the idea he might be ill. She made him promise to see a doctor if he wasn't better in the morning.

“You're pale as a sheet, dad. Like you've seen a ghost.”

Maybe he had. He’d never told that story properly before. Never told journalists and biographers how they'd really met. They'd agreed early on the Woolton Fete was dramatic, fateful. Who wanted to hear about the paper boy and the big bad Ted? They couldn't tell anyone about what they'd done, it was illegal. Not even their friends knew they already knew each other by the time the fete rolled by.

John had said: “Come to the fete. Play us a song and I'll act all surprised, like. Make it a good one though or they'll think I've lost me marbles.”

What could he do? He'd been fifteen and he hadn't ever been in love until that moment - when John said play me a song and I'll let you join my band.

He curled his hand around Samantha’s note in the car. He could just barely hear the radio, the tinny sound of their youthful voices. He told the driver to turn it up. John was crying over the radio waves: ‘I never needed anybody's help in any way.’ 

Paul opened the window and let the woman's note flutter like a banner. He could let the wind take it, give it up. It was garbage anyway. Some charlatan trying to extort money from a rich star. 

They'd sworn to each other they'd find a way to contact each other beyond the grave. Whoever dies first sends a message, Paul had said.

“Knowing you, Macca, you won't believe me even if I do manage to send you one,” John had complained.

“I will! I'll believe it. Of course I will.”

But he'd never gotten a message. John had forgotten or he hadn't meant it. 

You're such a contrary cunt. That's what John would say. Moaning and whinging about me not trying to reach you when you're the one not paying attention.

Paul put her note in a drawer by the side of the bed. He told himself he'd tell Nancy about it when she got back. When he called the number on the note weeks later, he still hadn't told her. It didn't feel like cheating, though. It felt like “Lost Weekend”, his body curled around John's while Linda smoked pot with May in the next room over. Harry Nilsson’s ruined voice, rasping and winded, singing to them about that's just the way the story goes. It wasn't cheating with John. Asking him to deny himself that was like asking him to stop breathing. Except John was dead, he thought as he dialed the number. This woman was called Samantha. She couldn't be older than thirty. He'd finally gone round the bend.

He could hear a kid crying in the background and then her voice, worn and disinterested-sounding.

“Samantha?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said impatiently. “Who is this? I'm not buying anything. I like my phone plan and don't have time to read papers.”

“It's…This is Paul, Paul McCartney speaking.”

His own name sounded wrong in his mouth. Is it you? He wanted to shout down the phone-line. Tell me it's you. Prove it to me. He already regretted calling. 

“Fuck,” she said instead. “It's really you. It's you.”

“If you would be so kind as to explain that note to me,” Paul said. He meant to sound stern but it came out pleading. 

“No...yeah… oh, shit. I didn't have much planned after giving you the note,” she laughed nervously.

Paul had his finger over the red hang-up symbol. He counted to three.

“God, fuck. Don't hang up, Paul, for fuck’s sake. Hear me out.”

A chill wracked his body. He had to close his eyes. She spoke low and sweet, a California accent as far as he could tell. But he imagined that Scouse inflection, the smooth, slightly nasal voice. He could hear the click of a lighter and then a deep inhale.

“I had an accident a few months ago, must have been, four or five months. I was in a coma. And when I got out I started to remember things. I started to remember you. I'm not a crazy fan. I know it's real. I know things. I know we...you were lovers.”

Paul laughed at her. He laughed but his skin felt like it was on fire. 

“This is rubbish. We were never... You need to get help, I'm hanging up now,” Paul said firmly but not unkindly.

“You need to...you need to listen, Paul. God, you're still so stubborn. Listen!” Her voice cracked like a whip. 

He froze in place, his heart hammering like mad.

“Go on and tell me who you are,” he said. When she said it, he knew there was no turning back.

“You know who I am. You know I'm John.”

Paul tried to choke back his laughter, it was all too ridiculous. 

“John and I were never lovers.” How easily the lie rolled off his tongue. 

“Shall I prove it? I know things, private things. I know what happened at Shea. What Brian saw. I know what you said in India when you read Yoko’s letter. You want me to describe your prick? I can. You wrote a hundred songs about me. Not counting the mean ones after the break up.”

She had John's way of talking, one thousand words per minute. And all he wanted was for her to shut up. He was holding onto the phone so tightly his fingers cramped. He was too old for this, too cynical. He didn't even do drugs anymore. He hung up and sat down on the edge of the bed, put his head into his hands. He thought: how dare you leave here. How dare you? You never knew smartphones and email and Twitter. You never knew Trump and Justin Bieber. You never had to worry about what we were leaving behind. And now you're back. When I'm this. How dare you leave me with all these liars and sycophants?

Because that's what she was, right? A liar. What was she even implying? John was possessing her? She was John reincarnated? For all his shtick about spiritual enlightenment, white peacocks and Carl Perkins delivering messages in song, Paul wasn't sure he even believed in all that. George had, sure George had… Paul still remembered the glass moving over the board and the realisation it wasn't his mum’s spirit speaking to him.

“Hello?” A child's voice piped.

“Who might this be?” Paul asked gently.

“Jack,” the kid said.

“Jack, is your mother there? Can you give the phone to her?” 

“Maybe,” the kid said. “Maybe not.”

Paul tried to think of a funny retort, then he realised he was imagining Sean on the other end of the phone. Sean as he'd been when John died.

“Curiosity got the best of you, I see.” Samantha gloated.

“You knew I'd call you back,” Paul said angrily. “Don't play games. I'm not giving you anything. Not a cent. I haven't admitted a thing.”

She hadn't even asked for anything yet but he couldn't help himself. He just wanted to skip to that part, get it out of the way. He'd spent years wishing for John back and now he was too cynical to even contemplate the possibility he might be.

“You haven't changed at all, have you? I don't want anything. I don't need you to admit it. I'm telling you: we were lovers. I'm done playing games, Paul. I was shot. You want to hear about that? Will that convince you?” Her voice dropped an octave when she was angry. It made Paul skin break out in goose pimples.

He wasn't sure what would convince him, if there was anything this woman could tell him that would prove she was John. 

“Why don't you tell me who you are? What exactly this is about? I'm not saying I believe anything, mind.” 

There was a long pause. Paul could hear the cheery sound of some children's television show and Samantha exhaling smoke lazily.

“You want to hear my sob story?” She laughed. It was a dark, flat sound.

“Well, yeah...you know… it's a start,” he finished weakly.

“My name is Samantha Vogel. I was born December 9th, 1980. My parents were junkies, I was born addicted to heroin. The Vogels adopted me when I was four. I don't remember much before that. They gave me everything I ever wanted: music lessons, dance, art school. I paid them back by getting pregnant and dropping out. You've spoken to Jack. He's five. Brian, my eldest, is twenty, we don't see each other anymore. Anything else you need? My social security? Shoe size? I sleep on the right side of the bed. I smoke Camels. When I woke up in the hospital the song ‘Yesterday’ was stuck in my head and all I wanted to eat was a bowl of cornflakes with cream.”

If she was conning him then she'd done her research. He pictured John in a hundred different hotel rooms bent over a bowl of cornflakes, slurping contentedly. He realised, like a punch to the gut, that he wanted to believe her. He wanted to see her again, craved it, like he used to crave cigarettes and sex with strangers. He didn't do that anymore, didn't even smoke pot anymore. There was so much more at stake these days he wouldn't risk everything just to hear her lies, no matter how cleverly constructed.

“You said you were in an accident?” Paul asked.

“A car swerved and clipped my bike. Apparently I hit the ground and had a sort of fit. I remembered who I was a week after I woke up. I was doing the laundry, watching the sheets tumble dry and I just knew. And my whole life made sense. My whole life I'd had this...this goddamn hole at the centre of me. And when I knew who I was…” Her voice cracked, she cleared her throat.

Paul pictured John shrugging, tilting his head and glancing at him over the rim of his glasses. 

“I just can't…” Paul began.

“You just can't accept this. You'd rather wallow in misery. Or maybe you're just over me. Maybe it's been long enough. You're on wife what? Number four now? Still not telling the truth about who you are,” she taunted.

“Three,” Paul said through clenched teeth. “Number three. And I'm not over you! I'm…”He swallowed the rest of his words in horror.

There was dead silence on the other end of the phone.

“Got you,” Samantha said softly. “Please, see me. Please. You can't know how… how much… After I knew who I was I remembered the rest. I remembered us.”

Paul allowed himself to remember John, too. Not the John he spoke of in interviews, not the John in books and magazines, not Yoko’s John, the Man of Peace. He remembered his John. The sheer silliness of the man. The way they laughed until they were ill. The way he smelled and moved, the sound he made when he was aroused, that slow smile. The warmth in the pit of Paul's stomach when he caught John staring at him. 

“It was the worst moment in my life. Remembering you,” Samantha said.

That makes two of us, baby, Paul thought.

“Tell me you'll meet me,” she said again.

“Tell me something only John would know,” he insisted.

She sighed a little. “‘Helter Skelter’.”

He was expecting to hear something about love and hope, about the early days when they were just discovering their feelings for each other. He wasn't expecting this.

“You wrote it for me. You said that nonsense about Townsend but I knew it was for me. Do you, don't you want me to love you? You asked me that the week before. Typical you. You said it was over in India but you never knew how to let things end.”

“That doesn't prove… it's not that…” Paul stuttered.

“Not that simple,” she finished. “You said it then, too. It's not that simple.”

John knew how to end things. He brought Yoko Ono to the studio and refused to talk about it. No amount of apologising would make him change his mind. 

“You said I was jerking you around. But you started it. You're the one who wouldn't say the words. You're the one on the fucking rollercoaster. So I pulled the brakes. Someone had to.”

Yeah. He pulled them. Pulled them alright. He pulled them, then he took it back. That's the part she left out. John drew a line in the sand and then he said: fuck sand. I'm drawing a line in the water. The line is wherever the hell I say it is. She argued like John, no question. He was kidding himself if he thought he wasn't going to meet her again.

“What about Thursday? What are you doing Thursday?” Paul asked her.

“Meeting you,” Samantha said, the joy in her voice palpable. “Where can we go? People recognise you everywhere.”

She was right. He couldn't just meet her in some coffee shop like in the movies. He couldn't go to her apartment or invite her to his. Ah, the double-edged sword of fame.

“I'm not saying I believe. I'm not admitting any…” Paul insisted. It was too late now though, he'd as much as admitted it.

“Why don't we go to a museum? I've been meaning to see the Bowie exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum,” she said, ignoring his protestations.

“Alright. Brooklyn. But not Bowie, I don't think I could…” 

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Better not.”

David had been John's friend. Paul wondered if her eagerness to see the exhibit was proof she was who she said she was or against it. They agreed to meet at 11 am Thursday to see the Ancient Egypt exhibit. Something about women and gender transformation and the afterlife. Very apt. Very John. Swollen with symbolism. John and Yoko kept that sarcophagus in their living room, he hadn't forgotten it, its creepy painted eyes. 

As they said their goodbyes he wondered if he was making a mistake. If there would be enough time in the next few days before their appointment to do a quick but thorough background check.

“Paul,” she said just before he hung up.

“What?”

“You were wrong. I was a bloody fantastic lover and a pretty good dancer.”

He couldn't help laughing at that and she joined in. The sound of her laughter sounded like music.


	2. The Girl Who Was John (?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul meets the mysterious woman who claims to be John reincarnated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should there be a chapter 3?  
> Do I dare to eat a peach?  
> I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

He had second thoughts the minute he hung up. He should have given the note to his people at once. He should have told Nancy. This woman might have guessed about “Helter Skelter”. There were groups online that speculated about him and John; Stella and James had told him about them. Someone could have gotten hold of something John wrote, they'd stolen things from Yoko multiple times. Or Yoko herself might have sent the woman. It was unlikely, Yoko had mellowed in recent years. But you never knew with her. She was a loose cannon.

He had his people check Samantha Vogel’s story out. She was born in New York on December 9th, 1980 at five past midnight to junkie parents in the punk scene. She was born with congenital heart disease which was treated with open heart surgery. The Vogel’s, Lev and Ann adopted her at age four and moved to L.A. with her. She stayed there until about five months ago, soon after the accident that put her in a coma, when she abruptly took her son and moved back to Manhattan. She worked in a shop on the Lower East Side that sold coffee, milk tea and sweet buns. She still rode her bike even after that accident. Her parents came to visit on Yom Kippur. Samantha didn't seem observant, but she raised her son in her faith.She’d had a small exhibit in L.A.: fanciful stuff, magical realism. Some recent Lennonesque doodles on a Deviantart account with the username ‘walnutorwalrus’.

She gave birth to her first son, Brian Andrew, at age seventeen. The father was a fellow art student who apparently asked her to marry him and was turned down. She’d had a string of boyfriends and girlfriends over the years but none since Jack's father, a guitarist in a garage band who reminded him a bit of Kurt Cobain. The revelation that she was bisexual pleased Paul more than he cared to admit. She was no stranger to drugs. Weed. Coke. E. No heroin apparently. A short stint in rehab courtesy of her concerned parents. She'd been arrested twice. Traffic violations and resisting arrest and once for indecent exposure. 

He wasn't shocked to read her biography in black and white, there wasn't much in there she hadn't already hinted at. He thought he'd read the contents of the background check and feel justified in standing her up on Thursday. Instead he felt an odd twinge in his chest. It frightened him to see her story through the filter of John's life. He felt like he already knew every part of her, seeing her face to face could be no great revelation. But it was.

She was standing in front of the steps leading to the museum smoking furiously. She wore a pair of faded jeans, canvas sneakers and a white peasant blouse embroidered with flowers, white on white. Her dark hair was braided and pinned up, behind her right ear she wore a clip-on silk flower. A pink carnation. Around her neck she wore a thin gold chain and a round jade pendant. He imagined walking up to her and moving that chain aside, kissing the spot where her neck met her shoulder. He pushed the thought away. She was a young woman. He was an old man. Seeing her like this he could get no sense of John, no hint of his old lover. Then she saw him and smiled and he felt his knees buckle. 

“Hey,” she said. “You're early. We were supposed to meet inside in case of paps. Remember?”

Wordlessly he pulled a pen out of the inside pocket of his plain black jacket. He'd dressed youthfully for the occasion. A plain grey t-shirt under the jacket, black jeans and sneakers. He took her hand. He could feel her freeze for a moment as he turned over her hand and exposed the back of it. Touching her felt like arriving home after a long journey. Her eyes were round as saucers, she felt it too. He pressed the pen to the back of her hand and signed her skin. 

“There you go, love. Have a nice visit,” he said, raising his voice slightly. “See you in there,” he whispered and walked away briskly.

He was proud of the casual way he bought his ticket and headed to the right room. She took her time following him in. He pictured her smoking another cigarette, maybe buying a cup of coffee in the cafeteria or wandering through the gift shop. Making him wait because she knew he wasn't going anywhere without her. When she finally appeared he realised he overestimated her cool. Her cheeks were flushed, she kept stealing glances at him. At last they stood side by side, far enough apart not to arouse suspicion should anyone notice them. It was the first tour of the day. Mostly young people. The sort who only knew Paul McCartney from the Kanye video. She reached out and placed a finger on his wrist.

“You don't understand,” she whispered.

“Don't understand what?” he whispered back.

“What this feels like.”

That first sip of booze. That first taste of a narcotic. John pressing him up against the hedge, his cold hands sliding under his clothes.

“Shh. Don't say a word,” John had said.

There wasn't a word for what John did to him then. 

Samantha slid her hand into his. He looked around furtively but they were alone but for a monitor who didn't seem too interested in them. She was shaking like a leaf.

“How can you be so cold?” she asked. “Can't you feel it?”

Oh my dear, Paul thought. I feel like dancing. I feel slipping under your skin. I feel like telling everyone I meet about this feeling. He still didn't know if he believed her. But one thing was certain, his body did.

“Tell me something only John could know,” he said.

She pressed her thumb against his knuckles. He thought he ought to push her away but he didn't want to stop touching her.

“We...we didn't really talk about what was happening until we got to Hamburg. Like...like it was just a thing. A normal thing. Not a...not a romance. I think seeing all that sex. All the time and the boys dressed as girls. It didn't seem to matter as much, did it?”

Paul shook his head. He slid his palm against hers. Her eyes rolled back for a moment, her mouth slack.

“Fuck me,” she exclaimed. An expression of shock rather than an invitation.

“It was one of those chilly mornings, one of those mornings after a night swallowing too many pills. We went for a walk because we couldn't get to sleep. I don't know. We ended up at this church and I said I was so tired. Why don't we go in? Sit on a pew and pretend we're all pious. You pressed your leg against mine. All that stained glass and stone saints and me with a stiffie the size of the Eiffel Tower.”

And their mouths had fallen together, so effortlessly, so tenderly, like they were praying. Paul had realised there, this wasn't some childish infatuation, it wasn't even about lust, though he'd burned to touch the other boy. This was something else entirely. 

“And then you kissed me. Or I kissed you. I can't remember. Right there in the church and we weren't struck down by the wrath of God. And I knew I loved you,” she said.

Paul let go of her hand and walked ahead to look at a mummy mask painted yellow. He bent his head to read the inscription. She came up behind him to whisper in his ear.

“I love you,” she repeated. 

And then he made that fatal mistake, his hands came up instinctively to grip her arms. At once, he was dizzy with want. He let go of her, reeling, holding on to the wall. 

“Jesus Christ,” she hissed. “I forget you're not a young man anymore.”

“I'm fine. I didn't eat much this morning.”

She manipulated him through the exhibit to the cafe and ordered a bottle of water for him.

“Drink that,” she commanded.

He did as she said and then ate the vegan muffin she handed him. It tasted like the best thing he'd ever eaten.

“I've never quite gotten that reaction before,” she quipped. “You nearly passed out.”

She beamed at him, her hand snaking across the tabletop towards his.

He folded his hands together and gave her a polite smile. She refilled his glass and gathered up the crumpled napkins. That part was nothing like John, but the crease between her eyes, the thin, worried set of her lips, there he was.

“Tell me what it's like. Is he locked in there with you?” Paul asked.

“Do you believe me?”

“No. Just… humour me, will you?” 

Samantha sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were light brown, shaped like almonds. She shut them a moment and he could see how long her lashes were, not a speck of make up on her sun-weathered face. A scattering of pale freckles across the bridge of her nose and on her forehead.

“I am John,” she said at last. “John is Sam. Sam is John. We're the same person. Do you understand?”

Paul nodded once and then shook his head.

“Goo goo g’joob,” Sam said and reached over to brush his hair out of his face.

“Please don't do that,” he said firmly. 

“There's no one here!” she laughed. 

Then her expression changed. “Let's get down to brass tacks here. You don't believe I'm John. But the thing is...the thing is, Paul...”

She leaned forward, he could smell her perfume: roses and some other scent he couldn't place. His heart sped up almost unbearably.

“... you want me anyway.”

She smelled like summer. The way it used to smell: sunshine, seaside, cheap cigarettes and beer. And he wanted her more than he'd wanted anything in years. Decades. 

“You're thirty-seven. And I'm...I'm seventy-five. I'm married and I have responsibilities. Let's be reasonable. That other thing aside... if there's something you hope to gain…”

She looked hurt. She unclipped the silk flower from behind her ear and twisted it between her fingers.

“What do I hope to gain? I want to be with you. Don't you… didn't you miss me? Didn't you wish…” 

He thought she was going to cry but she didn't. She just looked him straight in the eye.

“Is it worth taking the chance? You're saying no because you’re being reasonable. Because I'm too young and you won't believe me and maybe I'm going to sell my story to the Daily Mail. How does it feel to live like that, Paul? When you once dropped acid just to see inside my head?”

He recognised that tactic. It was a favourite of John's. When they were younger they called it playing chicken. As a rule John was better at the game. But every once in a while Paul would surprise him. 

“What if we were to meet somewhere we could be alone? Not because anything is going to happen…” 

He raised his finger warningly. He felt a thrill run through him at the thought of being alone with her.

“Oh, sure… it wouldn't be prudent,” she rolled her eyes.

“You can't possibly find a man my age attractive. I'm thirty-eight years older than you. You should be with someone… My children...most of my children are older than you.”

The corner of her mouth twitched with suppressed mirth. 

“I'm two years older, darling,” she said.

He couldn't help smiling at the way she said it. A sidelong glance, that impish smirk. He could see John in her clearly. 

“If we did… when would… where would we…” 

A little colour stained his cheeks. He realised that he couldn't just pretend it wasn't a possibility. He could see the determined set of her jaw, that blaze in her eyes. He remembered how impossible it had been to deny John even the smallest thing. How he considered each act of intimacy to be further proof of love. Until sex stopped being enough. John had wanted his soul.

“I thought...well, better to be prepared, isn't it?” she asked. 

“You've booked a room,” he said incredulously.

She’d booked a room in a hotel in Park Slope for that afternoon. She said she was going there now and hoped he'd join her. Separately of course. He wondered if John would ever be that organised. If that was even how reincarnation worked. If this was a part that was only Samantha. He sat in the car for ages unsure of the best course of action. The best course of action was to go home. Forget about this whole thing. But how could he, with John's voice in his head calling ‘chicken’?

He called Nancy to tell her something had come up and he wasn't sure when he'd be home. Nancy was generally pleasant to be with, easygoing. She kept herself pretty busy with her beauty and health regime and work, charities and Arlen. He generally insisted that she travel with him, he didn't like to be alone. All the same, she made a point to leave him space, let him know she encouraged his freedom. He often wondered if she worried he'd find someone new as he found her when he was unhappy with Heather. He felt that no one had been this good to him since Linda died. Nancy was the person he was closest to yet she was closed off to him in a way that reminded him a little of Jane. That made things easier in some ways. It would hurt less if it ended.

When he entered the hotel room, he was half expecting to find she'd changed her outfit and hair like it was some daft Hollywood romance. She was seated near the window still wearing her peasant blouse and jeans. Her feet were bare, her toenails naked of polish. 

“I wanted to sit on the bed,” she said by way of greeting. “But I thought I'd bypass the tidal wave of guilt-stricken protestations.”

He raised an eyebrow at her and sat down at the foot of the bed demonstratively.

“Well, I'm here,” he said, shedding his jacket and placing it beside him.

“In spite of all your reservations.”

“Yes,” he said softly.

She stood up and walked over, stopped a short distance from him. There was a strange look of hesitation on her face. _Do you, don't you want me to love you?_ Like she'd made it this far and then her courage ran out. 

“In spite of all the danger,” she whispered.

He reached out and took her hand, sucked in his breath at the electricity between them. She looked like she wanted to bolt so he pulled her between his knees.

“In spite of that,” he agreed.

“Paul,” she said, her voice low and strange with emotion. 

He kissed her before he could convince himself not to. She bit his lip a little in her eagerness but he didn't feel any pain. They fell forward and tumbled onto the bed. Samantha was in his arms and he was drowning, gasping for air until her mouth found his again. 

Kissing her was like dying. His heartbeat erratic, his brain on fire, he realised he was gripping her so tightly it should hurt. She was crying but he didn't think it was because he'd bruised her. 

He pulled away, loosening his hold on her and ran a hand over her wet face. 

“Shhh,” he said soothingly, rocking her in his arms like a child. “I've never quite gotten that reaction before.”

She laughed and cried at the same time. “I was going to be so cool about it too. Mysterious and seductive.” 

“You're certainly mysterious, I'll give you that,” he said.

She angled her hips against his, rubbed herself against him.

“I'd say I'm fairly seductive too,” she said breathlessly. 

Paul couldn't deny it, his arousal was unmistakable. It was touch and go most days and he'd reconciled himself to that fact. He was no longer the man he had been, who'd enjoyed hundreds of partners in his prime. He still needed the intimacy but it was a different sort of pleasure than it had been, better in some ways.

He slid his hands along her sides grasping the soft cotton of her shirt and pulling it up over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra. A ripple of desire washed over him at the sight of her naked breasts. They were a modest size, and no longer firm after two children. The nipples were large and reminded him of sour cherries. She had a cruel keloid scar between them where she'd had open heart surgery. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to the scar tissue. 

“Sir Paul,” she gasped. “How forward of you!” 

“You'll find at my age, it's better not to waste time,” he said. 

“Fine by me,” Sam said as she helped him remove his own shirt. 

She ran her hands over his breast, over the slight tummy, the hint of soft padding around his waist. She ran her face against his chest. 

“You smell like you,” she said in amazement.

“Who else would I smell like?” he laughed.

She shrugged, looking down to figure out the buttons on his trousers. 

“Sometimes you seem like you. Sometimes you're someone else. Someone grown up, serious… What do I smell like?”

She smelled familiar. So familiar it made his heart ache. Like a jumper that once belonged to someone you loved, lost in the back of a closet for years, that still retained its owner’s scent when you pressed it to your nose. Unchanged by time. He remembered what George had once told him: “You smell like home.”  
That's what she smelled like. Summer days and childhood love.

“Excitement,” he answered at last. “Like danger.” He wasn't ready to tell her the rest.

She seemed pleased with his answer, pressed him on to the bed to pull his jeans off. She pulled his boxers off at the same time and reached over to squeeze his cock like she did so every day, like it belonged to her. He knew he still cut an impressive figure clothed, with his new, stylish, sporty outfits and silvered hair. He still looked like Sir Paul McCartney, former Beatle. Without his clothing he was a man like any other, seventy-five years old, almost seventy-six. 

“Not as imposing without me armour, eh?” he asked her.

“Semi-imposing,” she said with a grin, stroking him till his cock grew plumper in her hand.

It was more difficult to take her jeans off. His fingers refused to cooperate. She kicked the garment off the edge of the bed. 

“Have I changed?” she asked, sticking out her hip like Miss America. 

“No,” he said seriously. “Still make my head spin.”

She stretched out beside him, shivering like she was already climaxing. He could smell the sharp scent of her arousal. He imagined putting his tongue there, where she was wet, licking her until she cried out. But not yet. He wanted her desperate. 

“What happened there?” he asked, pointing his chin at her scar, though he already knew. 

She looked away self-consciously. “Heart surgery. Congenital heart disease. I'm fine though. It's just ugly.”

“It's not ugly at all,” he said.

She smiled gratefully, her hands continued their journey over his body. He cupped a breast in his hand, pinched her hard nipple. She let out a small, sweet sound, her head rolled to his shoulder and she licked his neck. Was it strange to her? His old flesh, the soft, thin, looseness of his skin?

“You're so beautiful,” she whispered in his ear.

His laugh came out strangled. John had said the same thing, lifetimes ago upon seeing him naked for the first time. He'd been beautiful then, sixteen and reckless. His whole life ahead of him. Firm and fit with a face that made girls weep with longing and piss their knickers. 

John had been fascinated with his cock then. He'd said it was lovely. Paul had never really thought about it. He'd always known other men looked different than he did, save for Jews and other boys whose mums had them circumcised at birth. He'd never really thought that cocks might be lovely. John was beautiful. In every way he could think of. Even the parts that were ugly—his temper, his insecurity, his squinty eyes and knobbly knees—especially those parts. Paul had never had to think about it with John. Of course John was beautiful. He realised he'd been thinking of Sam in similar terms. He'd taken note of her looks, seen her flaws but never questioned that she was beautiful. He ran a finger along the inside of her thigh, connecting the freckles he found there.

“That's a bit rich coming from you.”

“You don't have to charm me, you know,” Sam said. “You've already got me in bed, naked, panting after you.”

He put his hand on her stomach where her stretch marks were, circled her belly button with his thumb.

“I need all the help I can get with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” she asked.

He slipped his hand under her knickers, fingers flirting with the folds of her cunt. She squirmed against his touch for a moment.

“Passionate. Stubborn. Possibly mad as a hatter.”

“Keep talking and you won't even have to touch me properly,” she said. 

Paul withdrew his hand and looked down at her, his eyes dark with mirth. 

“You think I can make you come with the power of my voice alone?” he laughed. He hooked his fingers under the elastic of her knickers and slid them down so slowly she whimpered.

“Yes,” she said at once. “Just talking to you. I'm already… I...”

She paused awkwardly as if she wasn't exactly sure how to put it into words. 

“What?”

“It's stupid,” she said. 

She stroked his cock slowly, almost absently, her thumb sliding over the tip. He could see his signature on the back of her hand, like he had claimed her.

“What is? What do you mean?” he asked insistently.

She gripped his hand and pressed it hard against her cunt.

“I've been like this all day. For you. Just thinking of you. Talking with you.” 

She was so wet. He slid a finger inside her easily. He wanted to tell her he'd felt the same. For days. Ever since she slipped him her note. An ache of excitement in the pit of his stomach. His cock always on the verge of tumescence. He'd spent hours concentrating on errands only to jolt back into the realisation that she was out there in the city somewhere. She was thinking of him. It didn't matter if she was who she said she was. She'd brought John back to him.

He rolled her onto him, gripping her hips and positioned her so she straddled him. She slid onto his stiff cock with a small gasp of shock, scrambled to sit up and arch her back. The sensation of being inside her was almost enough to finish him off at once. She rolled her hips experimentally, her breath already coming out in small, shallow huffs. Then she leaned forward, her breasts grazing his chest and kissed him. 

John used to say one of them should have been a girl. If one of them were a girl it would make things so much easier. Paul didn't know if it was easier. It was different but the things that mattered were still the same. The way she slid her tongue against Paul's playfully. The way she shut her eyes, her face tensed in concentration. The way he wasn't sure where he ended and she began. The sound she made as she came was the same, half joyful, half sobbing with release. The way she said his name over and over again like it was part of the chorus in a song. The way it felt to spill inside her. 

It was over quicker than he would have liked but she didn't seem to care. She lay with her head on his chest listening to his heart beat. 

“I wish I could still write a song,” she said drowsily. “I'd write one about this.”

He put his hand against her hair tenderly. “I'll write one for you.”

She pressed her lips to his collarbone, kissed a line up his neck. He wished he were young again. Wished he could have her again. He kept drawing the line closer and closer to the water. He was only going to meet her to talk. He was only going to meet her alone to see what it felt like. He was only going to kiss her once. He was only going to have her once. He was so far out to sea he couldn't see the shore anymore. He wanted her again. 

“Tell me something only John would know,” Paul said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And of course now I can't stop writing this damn fic.  
> Thanks to Emma for saying she could tell when she's Sam and when she's John.
> 
> Thanks to @whereitwillgo for helping with so many details including Paul kissing first. And the line 'Sir Paul! How forward of you!' 
> 
> Thank you to JaneScarlett for rewording and beta and New York talk and looking at pics of Old Paul and listening to me moan about old dude sex.
> 
> On that note: thanks to everyone who listened to me moan about old dude sex. I spent ages googling so I didn't have to go out and find a senior to try it for myself.
> 
> Thanks to @celebratorypenguin for the old dude infos and my mother. Yes. Mom. For the candid talks. 
> 
> Thank you to Twinka for the super fast beta despite dog related stress. And for encouraging the old dude sex. ;-) 
> 
> Notice a theme here? 
> 
> I hope you're still enjoying this!


	3. The Message He Sent Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If Sam was telling the truth then John had defied death for him. Part of him had accepted that she might be lying and wanted her still. If she wasn't lying… ah, the world was on its head."
> 
> Paul falls deeper down the rabbit hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be dragons.

“Do you remember your twenty-first birthday?” she asked.

Sam lay on her side, running her hand along his arm. On her face was a strange faraway expression like she could see the scene unfolding before her.

How could he forget? John's face a mask of anger as he kicked the man in the ribs over and over. Paul had gripped his arm to pull him off, while Bob had screamed for Brian to save him.

“He's a monster,” some girl had said to her date. For once Paul hadn't been able to find it in himself to defend John. The cool way he'd shrugged it off, that uncaring, flat tone: “He called me a queer. What should I have done?”

“You should have left it alone! You should have thought of me for once!” Paul had said angrily.

It had struck Paul then, with a sickening wrench in the gut, that John had slept with Brian in Spain and that's why he'd reacted so violently to the jibe. Cloistered alone with John in the loo, he'd initially meant to help him clean his bleeding knuckles but he hadn't been able to even look at him. The smell of blood had made his stomach heave. Cynthia had been waiting outside patiently, all concern. He'd had half a mind to let her in. Let her pick up the pieces.

“There's no point talking when you're like this,” he'd said. “I'll tell Cyn to take you home.”

But he hadn't been able to reach for the door. John had dropped to his knees, wrapped his arms about Paul's legs, his head pressed to Paul's hip. He’d been frozen with indecision, unable to shake him off or comfort him. Loving John meant constantly apologising for wrongs he'd done you.

“I begged you to look at me but you wouldn't. I thought you were angry with me for showing you up in front of Jane.”

Paul turned to face her, pulled her chin so he could look into her eyes. She looked frightened, like she thought he was still angry now. 

“I was angry because I wanted to be with… with... you. On my birthday. But…” he stumbled over the words. 

It was difficult to express why he'd been so angry. There were so many layers to it. He'd been jealous of Brian, confused about John's reaction to being called queer. He was angry Cyn and Jane were keeping them apart even though there had always been girls, they had never discussed cutting out the girls. He'd felt at the time that this was a taste of what was to come. Success had come at a price.

“Things were changing,” Sam said softly. “ Cyn, the baby, Jane, the band. I was losing you.”

She curled in on herself, knees up to her chest. The action was so like John Paul's breath caught in his throat.

“You weren't!” he exclaimed. He placed a hand on her freckled shoulder, stroked it awkwardly. “You weren't losing me.”

She didn't look up, she was lost in the memory. Paul wasn't sure when he'd allowed himself to slide into the fantasy this completely. But it was too late to draw back now. 

“You didn't even look at me though I begged you to. I spent so much time apologising for that. To Cyn. To Bob, of course. To Brian, to the other lads. To Jim and Auntie Gin. And then the whole fucking country,” she went on.

It must have killed John to apologise to his father. He'd never wanted to talk about it after and neither had Jim.

“What did you say to Jim?” Paul asked her. “You never told me.”

“I need a cigarette,” Sam sighed but she didn't get up to get one. “I said I was sorry I'd acted inappropriately, I'd abused his hospitality. He told me he knew about me. He'd always known. The last bit with Brian in Spain only confirmed it… He said he couldn't tell me to stay away from you but I should have a care for your future with Jane. I don't know how I managed to leave without making a bigger mess of it. But there it is.”

Paul sat up in bed, ran a hand through his hair. He never knew Jim had called John out on it. He wondered if he'd known how Paul stood. If he'd lived out his life without ever confronting him.

“Why are you telling me this?” Paul asked.

“You wanted a memory.”

“Yes, but a beautiful one. Not… not…”

Sam shrugged one shoulder. “They're all beautiful to me.”

It had taken them another week to speak about it properly, after a show in Wales. In the “Angel Hotel" where they stopped for the night, Paul had finally gotten the nerve up to ask John about Spain.

“So, is it you and him now?”

John had laughed.

“I said no,” Sam said. “Of course not. You seemed so resigned. You wanted to know if I'd fucked him. You just asked me point blank.”

“Did you?” Paul asked. Fifty-four years later and it still hurt like it had happened yesterday. 

“I told you I didn't,” Sam said, her voice crackling with irritation. “What? You thought I lied to you?”

She sounded so much like John in that moment, she even looked like him. The way her mouth thinned, that half-amused look, her eyes hard as polished stones.

“I didn't. But you got it in your head this was something I'd wanted for some time now. Offering it to me might fix things between us,” Sam continued.

Paul recalled that line of thought. He figured he'd offer himself to John. They'd never done it like that before. They'd spoken about it but it seemed like an awfully serious thing to do. Like they weren't truly gay before, like this might be the final straw that broke the queer camel's back.

“There was nothing to fix, Paul. There was… it was all moving too fast for me. Like getting on a roller coaster and changing your mind just when you reach the top. There's no way down but down. But it wasn't you.”

The words were balm to Paul's soul. He pulled Samantha onto his lap, so that she straddled him, his hands sliding down her back. She let him twist her this way and that, like she was a doll. He pulled up her hair and kissed her nape. 

“You have a tattoo there on the back of your neck,” Paul said in delighted surprise. “I can’t quite make it out.”

“It's a scarab,” she said.

“A beetle!” Paul exclaimed. “You have a beetle!” 

She leaned in to kiss his lips. “I guess John was always in there, waiting in the wings.”

“Tell me what happened then,” Paul said, as though he were a child waiting for a bedtime story. As though she were Sheherazade but all her stories were about him and John. Every one of the one thousand. 

“Then you asked me if I wanted to have you. Like that...if I wanted to put it in.”

Paul felt a chill. Those were the precise words he used. The very words.

“Do you want to have me? Like that… John, do you want to put it in? Because…”

“Do you want me to? Is that what you want? Or is it just you think I did it with Brian?”

Paul remembered the look on John's face so clearly. That hint of defiance. He wanted everything on his own terms. Even if it meant doing without the things he most desired.

“I told you I didn't want to put it in,” Sam said, her face flushing scarlet. She put her cheek on Paul's shoulder. “I wanted you to do it to me.”

He remembered how it had felt to hear John say those words. The sharp twist of arousal in his stomach. The way John had looked at him, pleading and desire etched upon his face. They'd sat across from each other, too terrified to touch, as though it was the first time they were ever intimate. 

“Is that what you really want?”

John had nodded jerkily, like a puppet on a string.

“You don't know how many times I'd tried to ask you. I wanted to know how it would feel for you to take me like that. To have you inside me,” Sam said.

Paul laid her down on the bed gently, slid a hand over her skin. He remembered, oh, so very well how it had felt. Suffused with lust, with love, to take John that first time in the Angel Hotel. He felt the same now. That self same quickening in his veins, but his body failed him. He wished he were a younger man. Her breath was shallow, she stared at him, watchful, fascinated. He parted her legs, kissed the insides of her thighs, kissed the multitude of constellation-like freckles there. 

He'd imagined doing this since the moment he'd seen her waiting in front of the museum. He'd imagined sliding his tongue against the folds of her cunt, sucking her lips till she moaned. He'd wondered if she tasted like John. Paul pressed his lips to the soft skin there, his lips formed words against her flesh. Those nonsense words all lovers speak. It didn't matter how old you were, the language of lust was universal. Oh my darling, my love. How beautiful you are. How I've dreamed of this. In this case, they were all true. Though in his dreams she'd worn a different body.

She inhaled sharply, the coverlet clenched tightly in her fists.

“Please,” she murmured. “Paul.”

He teased her with the tip of his tongue until she was incoherent with desire, not quite turning his attention to her clit yet, only playing with her. Like this, it was easy for him to believe that she was John. Her body moved in precisely the same way. She threaded her hands through his hair, pressed him to her cunt like a child pushes a kitten into a bowl of milk to force it to drink. She was swollen, sopping wet with want and his spilled seed. Pleasure wracked through him like the echo of an orgasm. 

“What do you want?” he asked her breathlessly, his mouth moving against her folds. 

He pushed the tip of his tongue inside her for a moment and she groaned out loud.

“You know full well, you fucking…” she gasped hoarsely. She sounded exactly like him.

He flicked his tongue at her clit and she cried out, a low feral growl that made him laugh with delight and excitement.

“You creature!” he exclaimed.

“Don't stop now, oh god…”

He wouldn't dream of stopping now. He circled her clit with his tongue before licking downwards slowly and and back up again. He slipped a hand between her legs, pushed two fingers into her slick cunt, crooked them inside her. He was lost in her reactions. In the way she arched her back, tilting her hips towards his face. Every jagged breath, every involuntary sigh. When she cursed under her breath like a sailor, he'd found her rhythm. He could feel her thighs trembling against his head as she climaxed. The bitter taste of his own come was in his mouth and for a moment he forgot where he was. He looked up to see John against the pillows, his cock wet and already wilting in his hand. 

“Fuck, Paul. What you do to me.”

He blinked and saw Sam there in John's place, panting hard, her golden skin mottled white and rose with pleasure. She rolled her eyes, her head lolling to one side. 

After she'd caught her breath, Sam cleared her throat. “Christ, but you're amazing…” she sighed. “You're clearly making an effort. I'm touched. You were always such a slouch when it came to giving head.”

“I was not!” Paul said indignantly. “You're remembering it wrong!”

“You were, love. Either you've gotten more eager in your old age or you just prefer this.”

She ran a hand over her breasts and down the line of her hip and laughed Her eyes were sparkling with mirth. Paul grasped her ankle, rubbing his thumb against the ankle bone. He didn't think he preferred a woman. After all, for decades no woman could hold a candle to John.

“Maybe I missed you,” Paul said after a beat, his lips curling up mischievously. “Maybe you just taste good. Absence, you know...”

“Hmm…” Sam said, pulling him up into her arms. “You must be very fond of me.”

He didn't think this passion had much to do with gender. Those curves, that wet cunt—he liked them well enough. He'd loved John's body too, the light roundness of his shoulders, the looseness of his hips, the way his cock had fit in his hand. There was something easier about being with a woman, however. The last residue of his upbringing, no matter how tolerant this age had become.

Sam was staring at him, her lips quirked in a bemused smile. 

“I was only teasing, you know. You've gone all serious.” 

Paul shook his head. “You were the slouch. Remember when you fell asleep with my prick in your mouth?” 

Sam gasped. “You've confused me with someone else! Boring Dot or that Jane!” 

"Unlikely. Only John Lennon would fall asleep in the middle of fellatio."

“Well, if you have to call it fellatio...that would put anyone to sleep.”

Paul folded her into his arms, pulled her hair gently. 

“Still always need the last word,” he laughed.

“Yeah, what's new,” she said. She kissed his neck, draped her leg over his.

When he woke up it was late afternoon and they were still wrapped up in each other. They parted as they always had, without a farewell kiss, as though they still expected to see each other the next morning in the studio. It was only when he was safely home on Fifth Avenue that he felt that pang of loss. He hadn't planned on seeing her again. He'd promised himself he wouldn't. He was happy. Yes, he was happy with his life. This thing with Sam was like making a wish in a fairy tale, it never quite turned out the way you thought it would. 

Now that it was over he turned his attention to Nancy. He knew he'd been distant the past few weeks and he felt terrible about it. The fact of the matter was—whether or not Samantha was who she said she was—he couldn't risk his marriage. Nancy had saved him after that Heather mess. To keep this from her was appallingly disloyal. But how was he supposed to tell her what he had done? He wished all at once that he could ask Linda what to do. He told himself Linda would have understood. She would have given him advice. Surely she would have told him to follow his heart? He couldn't know how Nancy would react. She'd come into his life after he'd settled on his story. She didn't know what John had been to him.

Paul decided it would be safest to destroy the files he had on Samantha Vogel and delete her phone number. However, by the time he flew to London a few days later he still hadn't deleted it. He found himself trying to recreate her face in his mind. The exact shape of her mouth, the exact colour of her eyes. He passed a woman in the street wearing a rose-scented perfume and his heart fluttered in his breast like a teenager. It was absurd. 

And he dreamed of John. For several nights in a row now he'd dreamed of India. The smell of the place, spice and burnt petrol, the salty scent of John's skin. At the time he'd thought India would change everything. And it had. In his dreams he was back in John's room in Rishikesh. He could see the overflowing ashtray on the ground, the stack of newspapers. John's guitar leaning on a chair. The E-string looked like it was on the verge of snapping. Paul's fingers itched to pick it up and change the string himself. John was in bed, tangled in the sheets, his long legs tanned, the soles of his feet filthy from going barefoot.

“I didn't mean to wake you,” Paul whispered.

“You didn't,” John said, clearing his throat. “I can't fucking sleep.”

Paul hesitated, smoothed the cotton blanket with his palm nervously. 

“God, kiss me already,” John said impatiently. “Before Jane comes looking for you.”

Paul always woke up before he could.

One night, close to dawn, when Paul leaned over to touch him, he realised it wasn't John in the bed. He knew her at once, that sprinkling of freckles on her skin, the high arches of her feet. When he touched her she stirred, looked up at him through eyes crusted with salt as though she'd been sleeping, or crying. 

“You don't call, you don't write,” she taunted.

He woke because his heart was racing. His skin felt too tight for his body. He reached for Nancy but she wasn't there. She'd probably gone for a run. He'd saved Sam's number under Fred Zimmermann, one of John's many pseudonyms. There was probably no need to be so cloak and dagger about it but he did it anyway. He typed in the message quickly before he could change his mind and sent it.

_Where were you tonight?_

She replied almost at once.

_India_

Paul set his phone aside and shut his eyes. There was no way. No way she had been in his dream. He couldn't allow himself to believe it. His phone beeped again.

_You should have kissed me_

He wanted to. He'd wanted to for weeks. The more he tried to push her out of his mind the worse it got. He couldn't stop thinking about her. And the real truth was he didn't want to talk to Linda about her. The truth was he wanted to talk to John. He wanted to ask John what he should do. 

_you should get some sleep_

_I could say the same to you._

_i'm fine. Almost 4 decades younger_

She was John and she wasn't. He could be risking everything if he saw her again. What was he really risking? His marriage. But marriages ended. His reputation. Would his reputation really suffer for this? An aging star and a woman nearly forty years younger? It wouldn't be the first time that happened. Look at Jagger. He had—so they said—the moves. His sanity. If he gave into this it might kill him. John would tell him to get his head out his arse and make a decision either way. 

_I wanted to call you_

_But you didn't. It's fine._

_Tisn’t._

_you had to stop to beat yourself up over it  
wouldn't be you without the guilt_

_You didn't write either you know._

_what was i supposed to say? i want to see you again? i can't stop thinking about you?_

_Do you? Can't you?_

_fuck. paul. do you know me at all?_

He wasn't sure he did know her. But he knew he wanted her. The distance between them was palpable. Heavy, solid as a slab, choking, the weight of the world crushing him. Suddenly New York was impossibly far. Further than the grave. His phone beeped again and he looked down at the screen.

_i want you. i can't stop thinking about you. i need to see you again._

Paul's skin prickled with desire, his stomach in knots. He was suddenly very hard indeed. God, to be with her now. To push into her tight, wet cunt. He wanted his mouth on hers, his hands on her breasts. He took himself in hand and tossed himself off in quick, efficient strokes, picturing her splayed in his lap, her dark hair coming down about her face. She leaned down to kiss him and he slid his hands down her back, cupped her buttocks. When she pulled away to look into his eyes she was John. A smile played upon his lips, his eyes glittering with playful lust. His hand was on Paul's prick, stroking him so slowly it was driving him crazy. His own prick was stiff, waving in Paul’s face as he moved. It glistened where he'd spilled a little in his excitement. Paul imagined taking it in his mouth and came all over his own hand, shuddering and gasping. His phone beeped. 

_did you think of me when you did it?_

_Did what?_

___i thought of you._ _ _

There was a tight feeling in his stomach, warmth curling through his whole body, making his head feel light. He tried to think of the last time he'd felt like this, invincible, ready to take on the whole world. There was no way he was doing this. No way. In the shower he tried to talk himself out of it as he washed away the sticky emissions of pleasure, but visions of her touching herself kept flashing in his mind. Paul remembered the lad John had been, trousers open to the knees, gripping his prick like a soldier grips a bayonet. He'd looked over at Paul brazenly, the tip of his tongue licking his upper lip deliberately as if to say: remember? I did this to you. I made you come. And none of the other lads even realised.

“Hey, honey. Sleep well?” Nancy called out to him over the hiss of the shower stream. 

Startled and red-faced he waited for his heartbeat to slow before answering her. 

“Great, thanks!”

“You've seemed so restless the last few days. I thought we might think about new pillows. Or maybe it's just too warm in the room.”

He missed that last blunt before bedtime, that's what was up. And Sam, the blanket tangled in her legs, her hand pressed between them. Her nipples hard knots against the thin cotton jersey of her nightdress. The flush on her neck and cheeks.

“Paul,” she sighed. “Paul.” 

“Paul? Are you okay?” Nancy opened the sliding door, letting the water out. 

“You’re getting yourself all wet!” Paul spluttered at her. 

Nancy smiled, dropping her jogging clothes to the floor.

“That's okay. I don't mind, do you?" 

She stepped into the shower with him. He got her off in record time as she clung to him, her face pressed against his neck. Afterwards she scrubbed his back. There was a certain element of guilt no amount of soap could wash away. He was startled to find that though he'd felt guilty about cheating on Nancy with Sam, he was nearly inconsolable over this simple act of intimacy with his wife. The feeling he'd somehow betrayed Sam—betrayed John—was overpowering. He arranged for a flight to New York before the day was over.

Strange how some lies came easy, rolling off the tongue without a second thought. Others were off key, immediately recognisable as such. Paul wondered what it sounded like when he gave interviews regarding John Lennon’s sexuality. He wondered what he sounded like to Nancy when he told her he had a handful of meetings in New York but that he intended to travel alone. Then he did something he never thought he'd do: he told her he was meeting Yoko Ono. On the rare occasions he met with Yoko in person regarding business, he usually insisted on traveling alone. Yoko was penance. Yoko was fifty rosaries and nine Hail Marys. If there was a God he'd strike him dead for evoking her name in that way. Nancy even kissed him, stroked his arm. 

“Yeah, sure. Don't let her get to you.” 

She'd never call Yoko to ask if it was true 

In the plane he thought about all the times he'd done this for John. Just this. Throwing away what was safe with both hands in exchange for John's approval. He'd defied his father, Brian Epstein, the law, he'd broken promises and vows. For a glance, a touch, a moment alone. If Sam was telling the truth then John had defied death for him. Part of him had accepted that she might be lying and wanted her still. If she wasn't lying… ah, the world was on its head. 

_What are you doing to me, baby?_

He thought she might answer before he switched off his phone for take-off but she didn't. On the drive from JFK into Manhattan he switched his phone back on. 

_What is this John and Paul business? Who cast a spell on whom?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has taken over my life. 
> 
> That is all.
> 
> Thanks to Emma for cheering this on and particularly liking the 21st birthday part.
> 
> Thanks to @whereitwillgo for being the worst kind of enabler and telling me Nancy would get over it. 
> 
> Thanks to @twinka for the beta and for sticking with me through all my weird fic decisions. And for encouraging the old dude sex!
> 
> Oh. Thanks to the chat group for plying me with old Paul pics when i was stuck during the oral sex scene! I might still be there otherwise licking till his tongue falls off.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented and said they were now suddenly curious about old dude sex...
> 
> Comment! This is new ground. I threw out the map. Let me know how I'm doing!


	4. Where She Lived, What They Did There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul shows up at Sam's flat and comes to realise he's having an affair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with Sam! The fic that took over my life...

It occurred to him, as he stood outside her building, he probably should have called first. It had seemed wildly romantic on the way in from JFK. And now he felt like an old fool in his new blue jeans, organic cotton shirt and ancient blazer. The jacket was one from his Beatle days, John might even recognise it. He'd bought a flower for her at the airport, a rose in a sort of lavender shade. A whole bouquet had seemed too extravagant but now even the single bloom seemed silly. John would laugh at him. He realised he was trying to court her as he would any woman. And Samantha was different. He thought about getting back in the car and driving to Fifth Avenue. It was four in the afternoon. People strolled past while he hid behind his sunglasses and baseball cap.

_darndest thing here i am looking out the window. i swear i can see Paul McCartney. You know. The Beatle. The second best looking one after lennon wait till i tell them on twitter_

_You had better let me in before I'm spotted._

_where do you suppose he is going with that pretty flower?_

He looked up to see if he could spot her but his eyes failed him. 

_Samantha. Please._

_3rd floor_

She buzzed him in and he walked up the stairs two at a time. Daily workouts had paid off. She stood in the hall in socked feet, leggings and, if he wasn't mistaken, a Wings T-shirt. In spite of himself his heart contracted. 

“I should be angry with you. I never gave you my address,” she said. There was a strange tremor in her voice.

“I… I had them do a background check. You knew I would… can't be too careful.”

“Charming as ever,” she said dryly.

He faltered. He'd made a mistake coming here like some misguided white knight with his rose and his packet of blue pills in his wallet. He'd made a fool of himself.

“I should go.”

“Okay,” she said evenly.

His stomach plummeted, he turned on his heel to leave, then turned back, opened his mouth to protest and she was hurtling towards him, pulling him into her embrace fiercely.

“Fuck you,” she breathed. 

He thought they should probably go inside. A man in his position couldn't risk being seen. He leaned down, took her face in his hands and covered her mouth with his own. 

“I can't believe you're here,” she said when they broke apart at last. “It's like one of those abysmal romantic movies on Netflix.” 

“Who's charming now?” Paul asked, he couldn't help grinning at her all the same.

She was kissing him again, pressing herself against him, soft and rose-scented and better than he remembered. And God, he wanted her. He let her pull him into the flat and shut the door. Her flat smelled of weed and fabric softener and little boy—that slight wet puppy scent he recognised from James. It looked bright and well lived-in with colourful rugs and furniture that looked as though she'd bought pieces at garage sales and refurbished them on her own. Most of the walls were covered in bright Kahlo-esque blooms and parrots except for one wall covered in acrylic paint handprints and stick figures and trains and cars in crayon. She'd let her son draw on the wall. There were bookshelves crammed to overflowing with books and records, and toys just everywhere. Paul stood at the doorway almost shyly. He'd forgotten she was a real person, with a real life. When she wasn't busy being John she had this charmingly messy flat, she had a five-year-old boy who liked Lego Knights and Pokémon. 

“Come on, come in, Sir Paul. It's not that bad, is it? I remember your house in ‘67. At least you can walk in here without tripping over couples fucking.”

He let her take his hand and lead him into the kitchen. There were dishes in the sink and pots of drying herbs by the window. The walls were sunshine yellow. Two 50’s style diner stools covered in cracked red vinyl leaned against a tiny breakfast bar. On the counter was a large glass of red wine beside a book with a worn spine and an ashtray with a freshly rolled joint.

“Glass of water? You climbed all those steps. Or some wine?” she asked him.

He leaned forward and put his hand on her waist. It felt strange to touch her here in the room where she made meals for her child. Where she read and smoked and stared out the window at the fire escape. She looked up at him and smiled.

“I can't believe you came back just to see me.”

“Now… who says that's why I'm here? I'll have you know I'm a very busy man. New album...all that.”

She nodded. “You came back just to see me.”

She took the rose from him and stuck it in an old green wine bottle she used as a vase. Paul leaned against the counter and took a sip of her wine without asking.

“Where's your son?” he asked, all at once remembering they might not be alone. He looked about nervously as if the kid might pop out of the nearest cabinet and surprise them.

“Sleepover with Noah, his best friend.”

“You didn't plan this, did you?” he asked suspiciously.

“Sure I did,” Sam deadpanned. “I told his mom my A-list celebrity lover was flying in to see me, she needed to take my spawn off my hands.” 

Paul raised an eyebrow at her and grasped a handful of her T-shirt to draw her closer. The word ‘lover’ made him flush with delight as though he were a teenager rather than a senior.

“Did you read my mind? Is that how you knew?” 

“Yup. That's it, I used my magical mystery powers,” she said.

“What am I thinking now?” he asked.

“You want to kiss me again,” she said.

“You don't need magic to figure that out.”

Then she pulled him down and kissed him. His heart was beating so fast he could barely breathe. This was an affair. A full-blown affair. Surely he was too old for this nonsense. She reached for his hand, weaving their fingers together. 

“What were you doing before I arrived?” he asked.

“Just relaxing. Daydreaming.” 

Paul smiled, brought her hand up to his mouth to kiss it.

“What about?”

“A knight. Most infuriating man I ever met,” she said.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Bossy, show-off, brown-noser, nice butt. Romantic moron.”

He kissed her wrist where her pulse jumped.

“Turns me on when you insult me,” he said with a laugh.

“Yeah, I know.”

He looked into her eyes trying to find the right words. If this was an affair they had to be very careful. He knew he ought to just turn around and fly back to Nancy. But who was he kidding? That's not why he came all this way.

“What happens now, Sam?” he whispered.

She pulled him closer and ran her face against his chest. 

“We get high, then we go to bed,” she said with a smirk, ignoring his real question. “Just like old times.”

Paul shrugged awkwardly. “I didn't need help in the old days.” 

She perched herself on a barstool, lit the joint and took a drag. Paul set the glass down and leaned against her knees, one hand on the counter.

“Yeah, in the old days we could go again in no time. God, you were insatiable,” she said.

“Says the man who once wanked nine times in a row on a dare.”

Sam handed him the joint and grinned.

“Take your magic pill, old man. I need you to fuck me.”

He paused a moment before inhaling, just enjoying the moment; the scent of burning marijuana and tobacco, the way Sam was looking at him with that half-smile on her lips like she could read his mind. The T-shirt she was wearing was old, worn almost translucent and he could see the shape of her breasts beneath it. He didn't think he'd need the fucking pills.

“Been a while, hasn't it?” she asked as he exhaled smoke, trying to stifle a cough.

“I gave it up, you know.”

She was referring to the pot. At least he hoped she was.

“Oh...I know, I know…” she said. Her eyes sparkled, she slipped her hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “You gave up a great many things, didn't you?”

He shrugged and took another drag. He started to tell her real life was about sacrifice, that she'd learn that in time. Then he remembered Sam had known suffering. He pressed a finger to her breastbone through the thin cloth of her top where the scar marred her smooth skin. 

She pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and opened it, running her fingers along the wealth of plastics inside it. 

“Ooh, look. A Black Card! I always wanted one of those!” Sam squealed in mock delight. She slipped it out and examined it. It was one of those cards with a customized design: John's self portrait, that chicken scratch of long hair, nose and round glasses and the word “Imagine" in his handwriting. Sam put the card back into its slit, a sort of smug smile dancing on her lips.

Her fingers danced over the edge of the sheaf of bills, down the secret pocket where he kept a scrawled lyric on the back of a receipt: _Crows at my window. Dogs at my door._ A pink heart-shaped plec emblazoned with the word “Hobgoblin”: a shop where he'd once purchased a mandolin, and of course the slim pack of Viagra.

“I knew you'd come prepared,” she smirked.

She pulled out the packet of pills and broke one blue pill out of the foil casing. Then she placed it on the tip of her tongue and slid her arms around him and slipped her tongue into his mouth. He swallowed, pushed his hands under her T-shirt to cup her bare breasts. 

“I wanted to forget about you,” he admitted. 

She wrapped her legs around him and looked up into his eyes. 

“How's that working out for you?”

He had to fight a bout of giggles that were fast rising up through him like bubbles from a fizzy drink. It all seemed so silly now. His determination to put it all behind him and go on with the life he had chosen. She rescued the joint out of his grasp and sucked down smoke and then stubbed the bit that was left out. He shrugged awkwardly. He wanted to tell her the truth. She ran in his veins like poison and he couldn't tell anymore if it was the promise of John or if he was smitten with the girl, but too many words crowded his mind and his tongue felt slow and heavy.

“You're fine,” she said, running her hands down his chest.

He pulled her to her feet and pressed her to him as if they were dancing.

“Show me the rest of your flat,” he said.

She laughed out loud, rich and full. 

“You mean show you the bedroom.”

“It takes a bit…you know…it's not…” Paul stuttered.

The truth was he was half hard now but he wanted to have her the way he might have as a younger man. He wanted to make up for all that lost time. She took his hand and drew it to her lips. 

“There isn't much to see. You've seen the kitchen, living room—well, there's the bathroom. And Jack’s little closet. Kid has so much stuff it keeps encroaching on the rest of the place. Like weeds.” 

She pulled him through the flat, opened the bathroom door. Nothing much there, an old New York style bathtub with a thick plastic shower curtain, a toilet, a sink and a mirror framed with fairy lights. Jack's “closet” was a tiny room with a miniature bed covered in Star Wars sheets, a fuzzy carpet that looked like someone had skinned a hairy blue monster. There was a plastic box of legos at the foot of the bed. Paul laughed and sat down on the ground cross-legged. 

“These are marvelous. My grandkids love them.”

He picked up a tiny lego knight and attached a sword to its hand.

“They're great. You find them everywhere later. I swear I found one in my snatch once,” Sam said, settling down beside him. 

He gave her a sly sidelong glance. “I'd better have a look later on. Just to be sure.”

The look she gave him made his head spin. Pure lust. Then she turned away, and before he could say another word, she took the box and turned it over on to the floor.

“There's a little princess in here somewhere. And an astronaut. I wanted to get him the Yellow Submarine set. But it's so expensive.” 

Paul wanted to tell her he’d buy Jack one, but then thought better of it. He helped her sort through the mess for a while and then he began picking out all the red bricks and arranging them in a rectangle beside him.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Building a castle. You can help if you want.”

Sam got down on her knees beside him and watched him as he pointed out what he thought was the best way to build a castle. He kept expecting her to argue with him as John would have, but she stayed silent, though her lips twitched with amusement. They built it in a dreamy kind of silence, eyes meeting every now and then. Paul felt like a taut guitar string, tuned to the point of snapping. His nerves were on fire. He was hyper-aware of her every breath, every movement. They managed to complete the walls and start on the towers when she put a hand on his knee and shattered his self-control. He stood at once, pulled her up with him. 

Sam let out a soft moan and dragged him out of her son's room and into the hall. He pulled her T-shirt off and tossed it to the floor, bent to suck her nipples one by one till they were hard knots. He discarded his jacket, his shirt. They stumbled into her bedroom backwards as she struggled to open his belt and undo his jeans. When she saw his hard cock, she groaned. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like this, feverish with overwhelming lust both natural and chemical. He gripped her arms, shook her once and then pushed her backwards onto the bed. She laughed, sheer joy and anticipation, and lay on her back for him to pull down her leggings. There was a damp patch on the crotch and Paul pressed his nose to it, inhaled the scent of her arousal. She wasn't wearing knickers. Figured. He climbed onto the bed, his hands sliding over her body. 

She pulled him on top of her, impatiently guiding him in. He couldn't help but giggle with exhilaration. 

“Why, Ms. Vogel, this is all so sudden!” he squeaked camply.

“Is it? Feels like a lifetime,” she said, wrapped her legs around him, holding him tight to her. It was dizzying to be sheathed inside her.

He pulled back, looked into her eyes. John was in there somewhere, his John, that madman. She sucked in her breath, arched her back slightly.

“What's wrong?” she asked. Her eyes glittered in the half-darkness. 

He shook his head, words failing him. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked. Or how much he'd wanted her these past weeks. But it seemed so silly, so trite. And she already knew it. Sam brushed her lips against his jaw and murmured something unintelligible.

“What?”

“My love,” she whispered in his ear.

A thrill ripped through him. He thrust in her, slowly at first, then quicker, harder, and she angled her hips up to meet him. Fortified by drugs, or the agonising foreplay of those unsatisfactory shared dreams, or both, he felt like a young man again. His knees betrayed him in the end and they shifted, sitting face to face. Her knees pressed to his chest, she slid up and down on his cock, her breasts bouncing slightly, her breath escaping her in sharp bursts. He slipped a hand between them, rubbed her clit as she moved until she shivered against him. She rocked against him, her hands gripping his hair, his mouth pressed to the space where her neck met her shoulder, his teeth worrying her skin until, gasping, he spilled inside her.

He fell back against her pillows and she lay down beside him. He was almost regretful when she slid off his cock. They were slick with sweat and come, laughing under their breaths, giddy with pleasure. He'd left a red mark on her skin; he covered it with his hand as if he could heal it with his touch.

“I like it,” she said. “It's so teen romance. You put your mark on me.”

She'd put her mark on him—or John had—six decades ago. He told her as much.

“God, you're so romantic. I'd forgotten.”

She rolled on top of him and kissed his lips. He shifted her to the side slightly. 

“I'm fucking starving!” she said. “Aren't you?”

As soon as she said the words he was ravenous. She got out of bed, grabbed her discarded leggings and disappeared into the bathroom, he could hear the water running.

“I don't have a thing in that you can eat, you fussy number!” she called out.

“It's called being a responsible human!” he called back. “Think of the animals.”

He got out of bed and looked on the floor for his underpants. His socks were under the bed, he had to crawl to reach them—he was definitely too old for this sort of thing. As he stuck out a hand to grab a sock a white paw swiped at him.

“Who's this, then?” Paul called. “Someone was spying on us!”

“Who?” Sam’s voice swam towards him from the kitchen.

“This marmalade beauty,” Paul said, dragging his sock on the floor tantalizingly.

“Oh!” Sam exclaimed, charging back into the room on socked feet. “You've found Dragon. Don't bother, he hates men!”

Paul fixed her with a look, his eyebrows raised, his lips pursed sceptically. He’d never met a cat that didn't love him.

“I know you think animals, children and women are all susceptible to your particular brand of charm, my love. But honestly. He hates men. If you're mauled, what will you say to Nancy?”

He crouched back down again, pointedly ignoring any mention of his wife, and Sam, letting out an exasperated sigh, wandered back into the kitchen.

“Paul, I'm telling you. I don't have a thing you can eat.” 

A white paw batted at the sock he was holding and Paul crowed in triumph.

“You used to do that macrobiotic rubbish but you can't bother with vegetarian,” he said dryly. “Animals need peace and love too.”

She stuck her head back in through the door. “You're a crusader,” she said. She rolled her eyes at him.

“Really. Now, I'm being serious. Samantha. Have you even thought it through?”

“Jack's veggie. I don't even know why. He just won't eat meat. But I love bacon too much.”

He looked at her disapprovingly, lips pursed.

“Yeah, I'm a bad Jew too. Tell me about it." 

A marmalade head poked out from under the bed, sniffing cautiously. Dragon pressed his tiny cold nose to Paul's hand. He froze, gave Sam a sidelong glance and a triumphant smile. She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Show off,” she said but she smiled back.

He made her order vegan Korean take-away from a place that charged outrageous prices well beyond her means. She scowled through the whole call but she did it. He put the cash to pay for it on the coffee table demonstratively but didn't say anything about paying. As they waited for the food to arrive she opened a better bottle of wine. He didn't bother asking her if it was vegan. He already knew the answer. Paul flipped through her vinyl collection as she poured their drinks, and finally pulled out one that surprised him a little. He placed the record on the turntable and “Wouldn't It Be Nice” burst forth through her cheap speakers. She laughed out loud, walked into the room and handed him a glass.

“Wouldn't it be nice if we were older, then we wouldn't have to wait so long,” Paul sang along, doing a camp little dance.

“How fitting,” she said with a grin.

They sat side by side, shoulders brushing, listening to the album in silence. 

“Tell me…” Paul began, when she flipped the record over.

“We went to see the release together, remember?” she interrupted him. She already knew what he needed to hear. “We were high out of our minds and you kept touching me to see if I had fallen asleep.”

“Your eyes were closed.”

“I was listening, Paul.”

She sat down next to him again as “God Only Knows" rang out joyfully from the speakers.

“It was so beautiful. I was afraid you’d hate it. I couldn’t bear to think you might tear it apart, point out its weaknesses when I felt like…” Paul explained.

“It felt like looking at the face of God,” Sam said, her voice hushed reverently. “It felt like the moment you realise you’re in love. Like the loss of innocence. You put your arm around my waist, your hand on my hip.” Sam touched Paul’s hip gently, her fingers slipping under the waistband of his trousers to rub his hip bone. 

“You looked at me like… I thought you were going to kiss me,” Paul said. 

“I wish I had. Imagine all of them, right in the middle of “God Only Knows”. Lennon and McCartney snogging the face off each other.”

Paul closed his eyes. He remembered how much he’d wanted John that evening. That beautiful, frantic scrambling inside him, the tightening of his chest. The gorgeous interweaving harmonies of The Beach Boys making him long to express how he felt, physically, musically, by any means necessary. Even later, when they were alone, it had felt like sex could never be enough. Their own bodies let them down, the weak shell of their flesh. It had felt like they needed to invent a more efficient way to come together.

“That’s my favourite song,” Paul said, his words lifting the heaviness of the mood that had fallen between them like a velvet curtain.

“I know,” Sam said.

“I always thought you were jealous of him,” Paul said, tapping the image of Brian Wilson on the album cover.

“I was jealous of everyone you admired,” she said, pulling up her legs and twisting herself into a pretzel, exactly like John might have.

“Brian was just so wildly talented. I thought…He was driven, experimental...I rather thought you wished I was more like him,” she admitted.

Paul took her wine and placed it on the coffee table, pulled her up onto the sofa. She sat beside him with her legs crossed awkwardly, looking years younger. She didn't understand. He and John were matched. He would never know that again in his lifetime. 

“I spent decades trying to replace you, you know. No one was ever good enough.” 

Sam looked down. “Shame I can't sing worth a damn this time round. But then my singing always left much to be desired.”

Paul put an arm around her, squeezed her shoulder. “You had a beautiful voice. You never needed ketchup.” 

He waved a hand towards her mural. “And look at you now, still making magic.”

When he looked back into Sam's eyes they were glassy with tears.

“You and that charm,” she says with a dry laugh.

She was wiping her eyes with the back of her hand when the intercom went off. 

“That'll be dinner,” she said, swiping the cash off the coffee table and heading to the door. Dragon had ventured out of the bedroom and placed himself under the table close enough to Paul to observe him but too far away to pet. Paul looked into his golden eyes willing him to sit on his lap.

“I tried calling you! But it went to voicemail,” a woman's voice was saying. “He just wasn't feeling well… you know... he was homesick.”

Paul stood up, considered making a dash for the bedroom. He couldn't believe how spectacularly he'd fucked up if he was recognised now. He struggled to think of an excuse, any excuse, but his mind was absolutely blank. There in the doorway was a little boy with shaggy brown hair and almond shaped-eyes. He looked as though he'd been crying, his nose was running. He was clutching a plush rabbit and staring at Paul intently.

“Yeah. Sure. I thought he was over that,” Sam sighed. “I'm sure Noah’s disappointed.”

“It takes time,” the woman was saying. “There's nothing you can do but be patient.”

“I know…it's just…well, there's…” Sam stuttered.

The kid took a tentative step into the living room, his eyes never leaving Paul's face.

“Hello there, you must be Jack,” Paul said softly, motioning to the boy. “I'm a friend of your mum's.”

“Oh…you're not alone…Honey, are you crying? Are you okay? Did something happen?” the woman at the door was saying.

Paul pulled out a handkerchief and held it out. ”Would you like to blow your nose? Just, give it a good toot?” 

Jack took the handkerchief and snuffled into it. He watched Paul warily.

“I know you,” Jack whispered solemnly. 

“Is that so?” Paul asked, his heart was beating like mad. What were the chances he'd be outed by a five-year-old? It was Julian all over again.

“I'm okay, Liv. It's not like that,” Sam reassured her friend.

And then the woman pushed into the room, Sam close on her heels, her face stricken. She was a fairly tall woman, the sort they called handsome, with dark hair and intense dark eyes. She fixed Paul with a suspicious look. Her hand closed protectively on Jack's shoulder, pulling him to her side.

“Hi. I'm Olivia,” she said.

“You must be Noah’s mother, I've heard so much about you,” Paul said, praying to every god he could think of she didn't know who he was. He flashed her his most winsome smile. Maybe he could tell her he just looked like Paul McCartney. Maybe she'd believe him.

“And you are?” Olivia asked, her tone prickly, her posture defensive.

“Liv,” Sam said. “This is…”

“I'm James,” Paul interrupted her, lying seamlessly upon realising she hadn't recognised him. “Old family friend. Sam and I were just catching up. Old stories from long ago, you know.” He tried his best to strip his voice of the accent, sound as bland as possible. He always was the worst actor of the four.

“Yeah, Liv. It's nothing. I just started blubbing remembering the old days,” Sam explained. It wasn't even a lie.

“Oh,” Liv said, relaxing noticeably. “Good to meet you. Sorry to spoil the reunion but this little man missed his mommy.”

A part of him found himself eyeing her with disdain. Clearly not a Beatles fan. Another part of him couldn't believe his luck.

“Yes, well. Tell Noah I'm sorry. He can stay over next time,” Sam said in a slightly harried tone. She was obviously trying to be polite at the same time indicating to her friend she wanted her to leave. 

The intercom went off again and Paul didn't budge. Flustered, Sam headed to the door again, paid for the meal and came back carrying the brown paper bag emblazoned with the restaurant’s name.

“Fancy!” Liv trilled. “Living it up a bit, babe?”

Sam shot Paul a nasty look. 

“ _James insisted_ ,” Sam explained. 

“Well, enjoy. I'm swinging by McDonald's myself,” Liv said.

Paul shuddered at the thought.

“Mommy!” Jack said suddenly. “Can I listen to _Rubber Soul_?”

“After dinner, baby. Go wash your hands,” Sam said, grabbing the album from him and handing it to Paul who placed it face down on the coffee table.

Liv said her goodbyes and left them, as far as Paul could tell, none the wiser. 

“Is everything alright with him?” Paul asked while the boy was in the bathroom and Sam was putting food into plates.

“He's just a bit… I was in a coma for a couple weeks. They weren't sure I would...He's just a bit clingy, you know?” 

Paul nodded, put his hand on the small of her back and rubbed circles on it.

“Is this okay? I know you didn't sign up for... well… broken families.”

“And just what do you think I signed up for?” Paul asked seriously.

Sam shrugged awkwardly. “Sex. John...Sex. I don't know. If it's too real for you…”

Paul leaned down to kiss her lips. He wanted it all. The whole messy, uncomfortable, beautiful lot. He didn't know how to pull on the brakes anymore. He was hurtling head first into something. 

In the middle of dinner Jack put his fork down and looked intently at Paul.

“Jack,” Sam said sternly. “It's not polite to stare.”

“I know you,” Jack said again, he gave him a small smile that strangely reminded Paul of Stella.

“And who am I?”

“You're Paul. From The Beatles. Just you're old,” Jack announced matter-of-factly and promptly picked up his fork again and put a whole dumpling into his mouth.

“Clever lad,” Paul said approvingly. 

Sam was eying him cautiously. Paul reached under the table and put his hand on her knee reassuringly.

“Let's not tell anyone, though, or I'll be doing house calls left right and centre, not a moment's rest.”

“Alright!” Jack chirped. “None of my friends know The Beatles anyway.” He rolled his eyes, his little face twisted into an expression of long-suffering. 

“Philistines,” Paul said with an amused smile. Sam kicked him gently under the table.

“They only like stupid music,” Jack went on.

“What's your favourite song?” Paul asked intrigued.

Sam gave a snort. 

“I like all the Ringo songs. But “Rocky Raccoon” is my favourite. Mommy likes John's songs best,” Jack said.

Sam shrugged. “John's a genius. What can I say.”

“Did you play him “Revolution 9” yet, love?” 

Fuck you, Sam mouthed at him, but she gave him a wink.

“Mom. I know you said a bad word.”

“Yep. I'm the worst.”

“You're her favourite, though,” Jack continued.

“How do you figure?” Paul asked.

“She always tells me stuff during your songs. Where you were when you were writing it. How cool a part is cause… you know,” Jack shrugged. “Anyway, she keeps looking at you like…” He made a kissy face at Sam.

“Do you want dessert or not, kid?” Sam glared at him.

“Will you sing me a song after dinner?” Jack asked Paul. 

“Sure,” Paul said. “How much money do you have saved?”

Jack's face fell, his eyes were wide.

“I'm only teasing you! Pick one and I'll sing it for you.”

He picked “Michelle" and Paul sang it to him after he'd washed up and changed into his pyjamas. He told Jack how he'd sung it in the White House because President Obama’s wife was named Michelle and how John had written the ‘I love you’ part. Then he did a little encore of “Golden Slumbers” and gave Jack a hug goodnight. As he slipped past Sam to leave the tiny room, she squeezed his hand.

“Mommy,” Jack asked when Paul was in the hall. “Who built that castle? Did Paul do it? Are you going to finish it?”

Paul left her to say her goodnight, went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth with the brush she'd left him, washed his face. He looked at himself in the fairy-lit mirror; his sharp, stern looking profile; the thinness of his lips. He looked like an old man, he was an old man. For a moment he thought he should call his car, go back home. What was he doing here? Sam was singing quietly to Jack in the next room over. Her voice was slightly flat, deeper than he expected. She was singing “Maxwell's Silver Hammer”. His heart clenched abruptly, suddenly so full of love for her—for John—he could barely breathe. He made his way into her bedroom, slipped under the covers to wait for her. The very idea of slipping away, downstairs and driving back to Fifth Avenue seemed preposterous. He needed to sleep with her in his arms.

She came in a moment later and stood at the foot of the bed. He set down the graphic novel he'd been flipping through. 

“Interesting, this. Very dark.”

“You stayed,” she said softly.

“Wanted to finish that castle,” he replied.

She switched off the lights, got into bed and propped herself up, gazed into his face.

“Jack's beside himself with happiness.”

“Just Jack?”

“Paul,” she said in an odd strangled tone. 

He put his arm around her, buried his nose in her hair. Where they touched he felt a crackle of raw energy. She put her hand on his cheek, rubbed her nose against his neck. Paul put his mouth on her shoulder. She exhaled sharply.

“Not…” she began, pulling away a little.

“Yeah.”

Not with Jack in the next room. The moment she started to say it he felt his need for her sharp as a knife. She was trembling a little, her breath shallow. She placed her hands on his chest, bracing herself, but she didn't push him away.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Her skin felt feverish against his. When she moved her legs, pressed them to his, he longed to slip a hand between them, check if she was wet for him.

“I want you so much,” she whispered. “It scares me.”

He knew exactly what she meant. Her mouth found his in the dark, they rubbed their lips against each other. He didn't dare kiss her properly, he didn't think he'd be able to stop if he did. He didn't need those pills in his wallet, his cock was stiff against her thigh, aching with desire.

“Oh,” she breathed against his mouth. “Oh, oh, oh.”

Her hand moved against his cock for a split second, brushing it, light as a feather. Paul grasped her wrist. 

“Better not.”

“Yes. No. Better not.” 

He put a hand on her breast and she let out a shaky sigh. He pulled her against him again, held her tight. They hummed with need, little waves of pleasure washed over him though he couldn't quench his need in her. They lay like that for ages, shivering against each other until Paul felt her breathing slow and his eyelids grow heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam took a little break so I could work on my big bang fic. But she couldn't stay away for long! 
> 
> I actually put a ton of easter egg type things in this chapter. Sam's flat is on Catherine Street in Chinatown. I looked up affordable places on a real estate site. I put in the lego castle because i once built a castle with my bro and dad. One of my best childhood memories. Sam's cat was named after the cat in The Secret Of Nimh- one of my favourite films as a kid.
> 
> Thanks to all the people who helped me with the silly details in this chapter.  
> @sunqueen78 and @drearymondays! For the stuff about what toys Jack would have. What animal his plushie should be.
> 
> @sunqueen78 and @whereitwillgo for Paul fashion choices. 
> 
> Thank you to JaneScarlett for listening to me go on and on. There are a bunch of things in here that i put in just for you. The plec in Paul's wallet... Liv.
> 
> I did actually look up vegan restaurants they could order from. The restaurant i picked is called "Hangawi" I've never eaten there but it looked good online.
> 
> The line Paul has about "You never needed ketchup" is referencing a story George Martin told about John hating his own voice and often asking Martin to alter it. "Smother it in ketchup or something."
> 
> Thank you to @whereitwillgo for so many things! Thanks for general chats about Sam. Thanks for pointing out that Paul should be concerned Liv might recognise him. Thanks for encouraging me! Thanks for reading snippets and giving input!
> 
> Thank you to Twinka!!! Neither of us are big domestic fluff people so  
> I'll admit I was very surprised when you said you liked this chapter a lot! Thanks for talking it through with me till the wee hours! Thanks for the discussion about what John souvenir Paul might have in his wallet and finally the suggestion to make it a customised credit card. I love writing with you :-) 
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you think!! This is certainly uncharted territory for me!


	5. The End Of The Affair, The Beginning Of The Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything that goes on backstage with Paul and Sam. Paul struggles with his conscience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Sam for you!
> 
> It's hard to tell if people still want to read about this. I hope so. Anyway here's more...let me know how you like it. I'm insecure!

Paul woke up curled behind Sam, his cock already hard against her soft arse, his face in her hair. He reached, instinctively, to cup her breasts, pressed himself into the warm space between her thighs, his cock straining for more of that glorious friction. He didn't think he'd been dreaming, but he recalled a persistent feeling of yearning, a twinge in his chest, an anxious prickling of his skin. He missed her in his sleep and it woke him up.

She let out a sleep-muzzy sigh, put her hands over his. Mostly awake now, he suddenly remembered the reason he should stop but she was leaning back into him and he couldn't stop—not yet. He let a hand drop between her legs; she was so slick with desire. His whole body was thrumming like a struck chord and he ached to push into her. She turned her head slightly so her cheek brushed his lips, reached behind her to grip his cock clumsily. 

“Can you be really quiet?” she breathed.

“Yes,” he whispered back. He didn't think he could stop even if he wanted to.

She guided him into her and he rocked against her slowly. Outside he could hear the faint noises of the city. In the relative silence of the flat the sound of their breathing was thunderous in Paul's ears. He feared, absurdly, they might wake the whole building. She pushed back to meet him, slightly out of sync with him in a way that was a little distracting but also titillating. Like off-beat claps to underline a theme.

There was a dreamlike quality to the way they moved together, an excruciating build up of excitement that they struggled and failed to keep in check. The position was a tricky one and he slid out of her more than once in his eagerness. She reached down, pushed him back into her hastily. She kept her hand there, cradled his balls as he thrust into her. Impatient with the position, Paul rolled her onto her stomach, careful not to slip out of her, pressed her into the mattress with each deep thrust. The springs creaked comically as he moved above her but he didn't slow down. She felt so warm beneath him, her body sticky with their combined sweat. Her damp hair was in his mouth, he brushed it aside, pressed his mouth to her shoulder to taste the salt on her skin. His hands slid forward to clamp down on her wrists, holding her down. Sam moaned out loud, struggled beneath him, her arse rising to meet his thrust. 

“Shh,” he said in her ear. “Quietly.”

“Don't you shh me!” she gasped.

“Samantha,” he said mock-sternly. “Quietly.”

She groaned outright, beyond caring. The sound she made sharpened his arousal. He wanted her to cry out again, angled his hips hard against her; the spanking sound of their flesh meeting was lewd. Her breath was ragged, escaping her in increasingly short gasps.

“Paul,” she whimpered. “Oh, Paulie.”

He pressed his face to her back as he spilled into her, moaned against her skin, “John.”

“What?” she panted, lifting her head to catch sight of him.

“John,” he said once more. It thrilled him to say the name out loud.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

He repeated it over and over while she shuddered in his arms. 

The next time he woke, the sun was streaming in through the windows. A warm ball of fur was lodged under his arm, purring loudly. The scent of coffee perfumed the air. His body ached pleasantly. Sam was laughing somewhere in the flat.

“No. No, really! There's nothing to tell!”

It was already past ten in the morning. Paul rolled out of bed and slunk into the bathroom to shower. He looked down and noticed a bruise on his arm where Sam had gripped him in her ardour. His stomach flipped with guilt. He could just wear long sleeves. He could say it was the personal trainer. In the shower he turned on the water, it came down in a lukewarm dribble and then cold rush. He backed up against the wall as he waited for the temperature to regulate. There was a _Coco_ shower mat in the tub decorated with skulls and guitars. Beatrice loved that film. For a moment Paul imagined slipping and breaking his hip, having to explain to press and fans how it happened. And Nancy.

“Hey,” Sam called out. “I brought you a towel.” She opened the shower curtain and stuck her face in, pressed a kiss to his wet, soapy shoulder. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah, great, thanks!” he said with a thin-lipped smile.

He managed to sound cheery but he felt awkward, out of place, like waking up in that rented house in Santa Monica in John's bed. It had been like nothing had changed, like they could pick up right where they left off. But that's not how things worked. Paul had had Linda, three kids, and Yoko had had her claws in John all the way from New York. Sam was staring at him, her face unreadable.

“You want some coffee? Or tea?” she asked at last.

Sam looked younger in the harsh light of day, her hair pulled away from her face. She wore a flowery shirt dress belted at the waist and lacy ankle socks. Fresh, young, a pretty stranger. He remembered her face as he’d fucked her, red and bathed in sweat. My love, she'd said. He flushed, turned away, shut his eyes to keep out the soap suds.

“Coffee. Thank you,” he said.

“You must be jet-lagged, poor thing. It's so late. I already brought Jack to school and I have a million glamorous things to do today. How about you?” she said 

When he opened his eyes again and pushed the curtain open a crack with one finger, he could see her perched on the closed toilet seat. Dragon's litter box was under the sink, he hadn't noticed it the night before. 

“I suppose I should get home, you know.” He shrugged.

She nodded once, looked down at the tiles. “Sure.”

Then she stood up and left the room, closing the door behind her. He hadn't really thought this trip through. All he had known was he needed to see her again, he needed to touch her. What now? He still needed to touch her. He wasn't sure how to turn it off, like coming up on acid and all you could do was wait it out.

“Sam!” he called out.

She opened the door again and pulled the curtain back again. 

“What?”

“Good morning.” He bent to press his mouth to hers. 

“Hey, hey, slow down or you'll slip. Good morning, you silly man. I'll get you that coffee,” she laughed. 

After he finished showering and got dressed, used her hairbrush and joined her in the kitchen. Dragon was lurking beneath the counter, crunching on his dry food. Sam handed Paul a chipped blue mug and a bowl of muesli. He angled his chin at the bowl.

“Calm down, Sir Knight, it's almond milk. Go on. If I'd wanted to poison you I'd have done it before you recorded ‘Yesterday’.”

He rolled his eyes. “There's the real reason the band broke up. Fucking ‘Yesterday’,”

She was grinning at him. “What are you saying? I loved that song.”

Paul took a bite of cereal and chewed thoughtfully. “I kept hearing reports about how much you liked my stuff, you know...while…”

“While I was alive,” Sam finished.

It was too soon to have this conversation. It was too soon to have a good many conversations.

“So, what are your glamorous plans?”

“I have work in the afternoon and I need to go to the laundromat.”

Paul raised his eyebrows at her. 

“Yes. Laundromat. I don't have a single pair of clean panties to my name. Why do you think I wasn't wearing any yesterday?”

He gave her a look, shrugged and then smiled suggestively.

“Yeah, sure. I usually wait around without my underwear on the off-chance you'll fly in from God-knows-where, sweep me off my feet.”

“That sounds pretty good, you know,” Paul mused. 

Sam rolled her eyes. “You're such a fucking dinosaur, McCartney.” 

“I was born in another age, what can I say? So, you're not wearing anything under there now?” he asked.

He put his hand on her knee, slid it up her thigh. She trapped his hand against her leg.

“This can't happen right now,” she laughed. “We'll get caught in some Viagra-fueled sex vortex. They'll find us weeks later, starved and dehydrated.”

“You succubus,” Paul said.

“You know it, baby.”

They finished up breakfast and Paul collected his jacket, put on his shoes. Sam slipped on a pair of loafers and grabbed her purse. She had a shopping cart on wheels and a big canvas bag full of dirty clothes. 

“I guess we say goodbye here,” Sam said slowly. “Did you let your car know?”

Paul shook his head. “Let's get your clothes clean, can't have you wandering around the city knickerless.”

He slid on his sunglasses and put on the baseball cap.

“You're crazy,” Sam said incredulously. “You're not risking exposure for my dirty laundry.”

“It will be fine. No one even knows I'm here. I have a hat.” 

“Oh, a hat. That's fine, then. They'll never recognise you,” she said dryly.

“Don't mock me for my hat. Not everyone can have a flawless disguise like you.”

She put her hands on her hips, struck a pose like Madonna. “It was murder to arrange this—but so worth it,” she joked.

Paul shook his head but couldn't help laugh weakly.

“Too soon? It's only been thirty-eight years.”

It would always be too soon. But it was so John to turn his death into a joke.

“I still think you ought to have a fake beard,” Sam said, looking at him critically. She dragged the cart out of the door. Paul grabbed hold of the canvas bag and they made their way downstairs. 

She kept asking him if he was sure. He wasn't certain if she was simply concerned about maintaining his anonymity or if she wanted him to go home. He knew he should leave. Maybe that was why he didn't. Maybe he just felt guilty for his less than enthusiastic “good morning”.

They dragged her laundry to the little shop chock full of washing machines and dryers. The windows were covered with dusty Venetian blinds. The sun was causing a glare but Paul couldn't read the Chinese characters painted on the glass anyway. Inside, an old woman in a sweatsuit was sitting on a lawn chair and staring at an iPad with huge earphones covering her ears. She glanced up, nodded at Sam and then looked back down at her screen.

Sam lead Paul to the back of the shop, the last machine was hidden from view. Even if someone walked in, which Sam assured him they would not, it would take a while for them to spot him in the back. She handed him a handful of bills. 

“Quarters, over there.” She pointed at the machine on the wall. “This place is super retro. Most places have rechargeable cards now. But, well. At least she doesn't speak English.” Sam pointed her elbow at the old woman. “Get enough for two loads and drying.”

Paul fed in the dollars and waited for the machine to spit out the coins. Sam was busily loading whites into a machine. A pair of lacy white knickers fell to the ground and Paul stooped to collect them.

“Maybe I should keep them for later.”

“Yeah? What happens later?” Sam asked, pouring in the Tide detergent and fabric softener. 

“Later, when I'm alone. Without you.” 

Sam rolled her eyes and continued to fill the machine. 

“That's the fun part. Jack always wants to do it,” she said. She pointed at the coin slot. 

Paul lifted the plastic baggie of quarters. “You want me to do it?”

“You know you're dying to. Makes the best sound. Jack pretends he's in Vegas.” 

Paul gave her a stern look. “Vegas? He's five!”

“What can I say? He saw Ocean's Eleven and fell in love with the slot machine.”

He couldn't stop laughing while he dropped in the quarters and the machine started up. He waited while she loaded the darks, then he filled the second machine.

“If I win big, I'm quitting my day job,” Paul said.

Sam laughed along, pushed him with her shoulder.

“What happens now?” Paul asked. The place smelled good, detergent and fabric softener and that warm, clean scent from the dryer. He felt at ease here despite its foreignness.

“Well, we have a bit of time. I usually bring a book. Or do some quick shopping. Then I put it in the dryer and fold it up. And you're looking at me like…I was a house husband, you know.”

“Sure. I know you had a staff. You fannied about in the kitchen baking bread and took Sean to swim lessons. You didn't spend time folding his smalls,” Paul said.

“Well. Sam has ample laundry washing experience anyway. Let's just stay here. It's safer.”

Paul nodded in a agreement. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close.

“That's not what I…” Sam began.

“Trust me, will you?” Paul murmured into her hair. 

He lifted her, placed her on top of the machine. He looked around quickly but the little old Chinese woman wasn't even glancing in their direction. 

“You're stronger than you look,” Sam said, swinging her legs. 

He placed his hands on her knees, rubbed his thumbs against the soft skin behind them.

“How do I look?” he asked. He wanted to push his hands up her legs and check if she was really knickerless, but he managed to restrain himself.

“Frail,” Sam said seriously. “Soft, gorgeous.”

Paul pressed his nose into her hair. “Not that soft last night,” he whispered in her ear. 

He pulled back a little, watched her blush scarlet. She leaned back, put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him close-mouthed. He slid his hand up to cup her bum—she really wasn't wearing underwear. She squirmed and pulled down her dress. 

“Behave yourself. Imagine if someone sees…”

“They'll see a dirty old man wearing a cap. Fondling a pretty young thing.”

“Hmm...”

“I want to lick you,” he said. He put his hands on her knees, pressed them together. “I want to taste you.”

Sam shivered, let out a soft whimper. “Oh, god…this is ridiculous. We can't do this.”

He smiled impishly, “No?”

“Paul. You know we can't,” she said but she leaned forward to take off his cap and put it on backwards. 

He moved his hands up her thighs inch by inch, circled her waist. He looked towards the window, the view was obstructed by the newer machines. They were probably safe.

“I know,” he breathed.

“I have to go to work. I have to do things,” she said insistently, rubbing her cheek against his, the tip of her tongue flicking against his earlobe.

“I know.”

He bent to press his face against the front of her dress. She sucked in her breath shakily. He moved his mouth against the spot and her arms came up to clasp his head.

“Please,” she said. He couldn't tell if she wanted him to stop or if she was begging for more. 

Paul pulled up her dress, buried his face against her cunt under the tent of fabric. He slid his tongue against her wetness slowly and then pushed the tip into her, inhaled her sharp scent. Her legs came up, she pushed him away with her knees gently. She didn't move to rearrange her dress.

“No?” he asked.

She shook her head infinitesimally, her eyes coyly downcast. He still couldn't tell if this was a game or not. Was she playing hard to get?

He let out a short laugh and backed away spreading his hands. “All right, I'm behaving!”

She slid off of the machine, her dress riding up, so for a split second he caught another flash of her cunt. “You get to go home to your perfect wife...I still have to wash my clothes here!” 

She looked up and grinned at him. But the mood had turned. She had no right to bring Nancy into it, not even jokingly.

“Wait a second now, sweetheart. There's no need to… no need to… you knew I was married.”

“I know you're married. Everyone knows!”

Paul stepped back to study her face, shrugged awkwardly. “I didn't realise it mattered to you.”

“I'm sorry...but...what are we doing? It's...because you can fuck anyone you want, you know? If all you want is something on the side, it doesn't have to be me,” she said angrily. “What is this?”

It was an affair. He'd had so many in his life. But none like this. This thing with Sam, it felt inevitable. He could fuck anyone he wanted but no one else was John. He had no choice in the matter. It felt like being backed into a corner; there was no one else to blame so he lashed out at her.

“You know what it is! You came on to me! Why else did you give me the note? What did you think would happen? What did you expect?”

“I thought…I thought…” she hesitated.

He folded his arms over his chest. “You didn't think.”

Just like John. Never considering consequences. Never considering people's lives. 

“Yeah. I didn't,” She said dully. “I just wanted to see you again. Sue me. That's what you do, isn't it?”

He could feel the rage hot behind his eyeballs, the words already on his lips before he could think it all the way through.

“Yes. Because you left me no choice. You arranged everything the way it suited you. Because that's what you do, John. You wanted me in your band? You wanted to fuck me? You wanted Yoko? You couldn't just leave. You had to piss all over everything.”

Sam pushed past him, her face deathly white, shoved him out of the way and hurried out of the laundromat. Paul hastily fixed his cap so the peak faced forward again and followed her to the door. He watched her disappear down the street but didn't follow her. He was already risking so much. Running after her would just draw even more attention to them. He considered leaving and sending her a message but he didn't know what to say. In the end he stayed put, watching her laundry go round and round. 

The anger had cooled somewhat by the time he unloaded the contents of both machines into the huge drum of the dryer and chose a program he hoped was appropriate. It wasn't like he didn't remember how John was. In fact, Sam seemed mellow in comparison. It wasn't the first time he was trapped between two people. Not even the second time. He'd never been in a position where choosing John seemed plausible. It still wasn't. Sam was too young, too complicated. He wasn't going to leave his wife. What they should do was end it now before it became more difficult to leave. Before they got caught. Before he hurt people who loved him. 

He had just about figured out what to write Sam, how to explain why they had to end things now, when the door opened and she walked back into the shop.

“I thought you'd left,” she said softly.

“I wanted to,” he admitted.

“But…” she began.

“But…”

She was standing right in front of him holding a plastic cup filled with a pale green juice. Her eyes looked puffy, her mouth pulled down at the corners like she was struggling to keep her composure. Then she said the last thing he was expecting.

“I'm sorry. I…it was selfish of me. It must have been hard enough to…I didn't have to live through thirty-eight years without you. I never thought it might be better to stay ignorant.”

Paul shook his head quickly. “Not better. Easier. God, Sam. Not better.” 

He held out a hand and she grasped it tightly.

“I'm not expecting you to upend your life for me,” Sam said.

“I'm not leaving my wife,” Paul said simultaneously.

“I know that.”

“I won't be in the city that often. So this… this won't be a regular thing.”

Sam nodded. 

“I can't promise you anything,” he warned her.

“I know that, Paul.”

They had had this conversation once before. John had turned Paul down. “I'm not bloody waiting for you to breeze in on tour and throw me a pity fuck,” John had said angrily.

Samantha seemed to have lost that burn-your-bridges pride. She gave him a small smile and held out the plastic cup. “Sugarcane juice?” 

She was so like John the way she ran hot and cold, the way she lashed out one minute and was as tame and affectionate as a housecat another. Maybe she only seemed mellower than John because she’d just learned to control her temper better. Or maybe she was better at pretending she could control it. Paul took the cup from her and sipped some juice from the colourful straw. It was good.

“So, what did we agree on?” he asked at last.

She was looking at him intently. “We're having an affair.”

He nodded. “That we are.”

They waited for her clothes to finish spinning dry and then he helped her fold them and store them in her granny cart. There was something strange and intimate about it. He had put his hands on every pair of knickers she owned. He told her as much.

“I'll keep that in mind,” she said as she pulled a pair out of his hands and stepped into it right then and there, smiling secretively.

They said their goodbyes in the laundromat. Sam had to get ready for work and she didn't think it would be clever to let him come back upstairs with her. They promised to meet for coffee before he flew back to London. Coffee. It sounded so safe. He wanted to ask her if she was still angry because she seemed to have cooled somewhat towards him. There was a wary look in her eyes that reminded him of John—the look of someone who was used to being disappointed. She kissed him on the side of the mouth before she left, her hands curled against her sides defensively. He watched her disappear towards Catherine Street, towards her flat. It was better this way, Paul decided. They needed to pull away a bit. They needed to be sensible. He needed to pull away because he could already feel his intestines squirming with discomfort at the thought of being without her. He was already scrolling through his schedule for the month trying to find places to fit her in. 

On the way back to his flat he got out, walked a bit in lieu of his daily fitness regime. Sex at one in the morning was hardly a good substitute for cardio at the gym. It was easy to walk in New York City, something about the gridded street plan. He passed by a florist’s shop with a spectacular window arrangement. He recognised the white waxy blooms: gardenias. Nancy had worn them in her hair for their wedding. He remembered thinking how perfect she was. The buttons on her dress. The strappy shoes. The way her bouquet matched his tie. The sweet scent of that white flower had been intoxicating. This, Paul had thought, was a taste of the rest of their lives together. This is how it would always be. 

He pulled out his phone and took a photo of the window, sent it to Nancy with the message:

_This made me think of you_

He remembered the call he'd received from Yoko a few days after the wedding. He remembered how pleased he'd been to hear from her. 

“Your girl is beautiful. I hope you'll be happy,” Yoko had said.

He'd thanked her sincerely. It was the closest he could get to John sanctioning his new union. 

“In Japan gardenias are only used for funerals,” she'd added, letting the words hang there a moment before continuing. “But we're not in Japan.”

“No, we're not in Japan,” Paul had repeated.

He'd thought the comment had been so classically Yoko. Remembering it now it sounded like a curse.

Nancy answered his message almost at once: 

_They're lovely. I missed you. I thought Yoko baked you in a pie or something._

That was when he realised he hadn't sent her a single message beyond the one saying he'd landed. He'd behaved atrociously towards her. There was no way he could twist this that made up for his behaviour. Even the fact that he had had a chance to be with John again—if that was even the case. He called Nancy as soon as he got home. They spoke on the phone for an hour about this and that and about people they knew, a bit about Arlen. Paul was supposed to see Bea later that week and Heather was being a pain about it. Heather’s irksomeness seemed to come in waves that knew no pattern. He tried to be civil for Bea’s sake but most of the time he had his people deal with her. 

By the time they hung up Paul had convinced himself it would be easy to let things with Sam taper off. He reminded himself how imperfect things had been with John. How he'd only known the man for a little over twenty years. That was nothing. The blink of an eye. Before he went to sleep he looked at the clock on his phone. She hadn't even written him a message. Chances were she wanted to end it as well. He got up, grabbed a sleeping pill rather than risk dreaming of her. He didn't really believe in dream sharing. Not really. All the same he was disappointed when he woke from his dreamless sleep and found Sam still hadn't texted him.

By the time the day of their coffee date arrived Paul was frantic but still refusing to send a message. He'd played this game with John for so many years. He remembered vacations apart refusing to send John a postcard in case he hadn't sent one, either. He remembered waiting till the last possible moment to call, practicing sounding casual when he asked Cyn if he might speak with John.

“You just couldn't live without me, could you, Paulie?” That's what John said. No matter how casual he contrived to sound.

_I can't make it_

She finally texted him two hours before they were supposed to meet. They had never even agreed upon a meeting place. He called her at once but she didn't pick up.

_i cant talk now_

_What's wrong? Something with Jack?_

_He's fine_

_My flight is at 8 pm. I wanted to see you before I leave._

Did he want to see her? Hadn't he spent the last two days hoping something would happen to get in the way of their plans? Anger bubbled up in him. This was classic John. Typical. He remembered driving to Kenwood and pulling the man out of bed by the ankle.

_Sorry_

And that was all she wrote. He arranged for a car and made his way to Catherine Street. He was angry with himself mostly. He'd let himself get pulled into this mess when he knew how precious happiness was. He'd risked it all for some slag. His heart contracted. He remembered John in bed, half asleep, eyelashes fluttering. 

“Good morning, good morning, my love.”

Sam's soft body pressed against him.

“Can you be really quiet?”

He squelched those thoughts rapidly. He needed to keep his anger close. He needed to end it now while he still could. He rang the bell where it said “Vogel” and after a while heard her voice, staticky through the intercom.  
“Liv, just come up for a sec, please?” She sounded terrible.

When he arrived on the third floor the door was open. The flat smelled stale, like cat piss and dirty dishes. Dragon rushed out of the kitchen towards Paul and he bent to pet the creature.

“Where's your mum?” he asked. Dragon butted his head against Paul's hand.

“Liv? Is that you?”

Paul made his way to the bedroom. On the way he glanced into the bathroom. Sam was lying on the tiled floor, dressed in a short robe. The whole place stank of vomit. He fought the urge to cover his nose.

“Oh, fuck,” Sam said, sitting up. Then she turned and was sick into the toilet bowl, her shoulders heaving with the effort. “What are you…?”

Paul just stood there a moment, Dragon weaving between his legs. She was trying to say something, the words lost between heaves. He took a step closer. 

“Hangover? Something you ate?” 

“Food poisoning!”

She stood, grabbed hold of his arm. “Just...just...leave me alone, God!”

She pushed him out of the bathroom, shut the door behind him. He could hear her in there, whimpering softly. 

“Great,” she said to herself. “Perfect. Perfect timing, Paul. Typical.”

Paul smiled at her words in spite of himself and went into the kitchen to search for chamomile tea. She didn't have a dishwasher, not that he would have known how to use one if she had. He only intended to wash two mugs, but before he knew it he'd washed a sinkful of dishes, a pot full of congealed pasta and wiped down the counters. The work was mindless, soothing, it reminded him of chores when he was a lad.

He found some tea bags and a packet of rice cakes. Nancy ate them too, they reminded him of styrofoam. He fed the cat and then moved to the living room, picking up toys as he went. After a while the sound of running water stopped and Sam appeared, dressed in a large T-shirt and baggy tracksuit bottoms. Her hair was damp, pulled back sloppily. 

“I made you some tea,” Paul said, holding out the mug for her. 

Sam nodded. “Thanks. You…what are you doing here?”

“We had a date, remember?”

She looked at him for a very long time before speaking again.

“You came to break up, huh? You didn't have to come all the way here.” She sounded more disappointed than angry.

Sam lumbered back into her bedroom, clasping the mug of tea. After a minute Paul followed her in. She was sitting in bed blowing on the mug. 

“Did you take something? You've probably lost a lot of electrolytes. Do you need me to bring you anything?”

“Liv is dropping Jack off soon. You shouldn't be here. Why don't you piss off back to Nancy?” Sam mumbled into the mug.

Piss off back to Lady Jane. That's what John had said, high out of his mind. He'd grabbed hold of John, pressed him down into the pillow.

“Don't tell me what to do.”

“Fine,” Sam said, “Stay. It's coming out both ends. Very romantic.” 

She set the mug down on the bedside table and shut her eyes. Paul settled in a chair near the window and read the rest of the graphic novel he'd flipped through the night before. He checked his watch. He'd just about make his flight if he left now. Sam was tossing and turning in her sleep, her cheeks flushed. He put his hand against her forehead. Her skin was hot to touch. 

“Sam, when is Liv coming? Did she collect Jack from Kindergarten? I have to go now,” he whispered, shaking her gently.

She opened her eyes, stared at him with her eyes out of focus. “Sure.” 

She pulled the covers over her head, curled in on herself. 

“Sam,” Paul repeated, shaking her shoulder. “Let me take your temperature. Where do you keep the thermometer?”

She leapt from the bed, dashing for the bathroom. He followed her, knelt behind her as she hugged the toilet bowl. Paul pulled her hair out of the way, held it in his fist as she retched. It was all stomach acids at this point. She was crying weakly, saying something he couldn't quite make out. He found a washcloth and wet it and used it to wipe her face. 

“Mother,” she whimpered into the cloth. Her shoulders slumped forward. He put an arm around her, pulled her to her feet.

“Come on, love. Rinse your mouth out,” he said.

It occurred to him with a jolt that she wasn't speaking of Ann Vogel back in Los Angeles. She was calling out for Yoko. They hadn't discussed Yoko. In hindsight, Paul realised he should have asked her if she'd contacted Yoko straight away. He should have asked her if she still loved her. The truth was, he didn't want to share Sam. He didn't want to know what Yoko’s reaction had been. He wanted to pretend Yoko had never been a part of the story.

Sam managed to rinse her mouth. She took a thermometer from the small medicine cabinet on the wall and handed it to him. He stuck it under her tongue and waited for it to beep.

“100.4°. That's bad, right?” he asked anxiously.

“It's not good,” she replied. 

Paul helped her back into bed, got in with her so her head rested on his shoulder.

“You miss her. Yoko, I mean,” he said. He held the mug of lukewarm tea up, coaxed her to take a sip. 

She leaned back against him. “Yeah.”

“Of course you do.” He struggled and failed to keep the jealousy out of his voice. He sounded like a sullen child. 

“You came here to break up with me. What do you care?” 

“Sam…” 

She held onto his arm, her fingers spasming. Then she turned away and put her head down on the pillow. She looked like death. There was no way he could leave her like this. 

“You're soaked through. I should get some fluids into you. What did you eat, anyway?” he asked.

“If you give me some vegetarian campaign, I swear to God…”

He checked his watch again. He had to call Nancy. He wouldn't make lunch with Bea the next day, either. The thought was enough to make his stomach turn. Sam rolled out of bed over his legs, landed on her knees and sprinted to the loo, slamming the door behind her. He went into Jack's room to call Nancy, sat down on the tiny bed and smoothed the sheets with his palm nervously. The walls in Jack's room were green. He hadn't noticed it last time but someone— Sam—had painted them to give the illusion of sitting in the middle of an unmown field. Paul picked up Jack's plush rabbit and gave it a nervous squeeze while he waited for Nancy to answer the phone. 

She was just getting ready for bed. He imagined her sitting in front of the mirror dabbing cold cream on her face, brushing her hair. He gave her a song and dance about a stomach bug, said he'd seen a doctor and was given fluids and Imodium. He'd see about flying as soon as he could. He'd never lied to Nancy before. Not outright. Not like this. He could hear the fib like a jarring false note. Nancy handled it with class as usual, asked if he'd like her to fly in. He wouldn't. He'd call Heather personally to reschedule Bea. Paul felt a pang of regret as she rang off. They had passed the point of no return long ago, the second Samantha handed him her note. But until now he had still been under the illusion he had some control over his own life. 

Heather was shocked to hear his voice. The minute he explained the situation there was a long silence. 

“Jesus Christ, Paul. You never change, do you?” Heather hissed.

“What exactly do you mean by that? You hardly expect me to fly like this. Bea will understand,” Paul said.

“I'm really sad for you. Really sad. I hoped Nancy was Ms. Right.” She was such a bad liar. Like hell she was sad about Nancy.

“I'll call you when I'm back in the country and I'll text Bea to explain. Have a good evening, Heather,” Paul said tersely. Then he ended the call and worried he'd come across like a cheating husband. He'd already been seeing Nancy before their marriage ended so Heather was right to be suspicious. All the same, he felt himself prickle all over at her assumption.

He got up and went to the bathroom, pressed his ear to the door. Sam was talking to someone in there, her voice gentle and soothing. He knocked anyway.

“What?” Sam's voice was muffled by the door.

“Are you okay?” he called out.

She opened the door a crack, pressed the phone against her leg. She looked upset but at least her eyes had lost that glassy cast.

“Talking to Jack,” she said curtly. “Are you leaving?” He couldn't tell if she wanted him to stay or not.

“No,” he said decisively.

“Okay.” She closed the door again, politely but firmly. 

Paul made his way to the living room, looked around a bit at Sam's records and CDs, at her books, running his fingers over the titles on their spines. He searched through a basket full of takeaway menus and found a soup he thought sounded acceptable. There was the risk the delivery person would recognise him but he'd deal with that part later. He texted Bea, feeling like the worst dad on the planet. She was sweet about it, predictably. 

Just get well soon okay? 

He promised her he would. Paul went back to the bedroom and found Sam still wasn't out of the bathroom. He knocked on the door again before entering. She was perched on the closed toilet seat with her arms wrapped around her knees.

“Liv said she'll just keep Jack overnight. It's probably for the best. But fuck, it's bad enough when we plan sleepovers. He doesn't even have Rabbit tonight.”

“Kids are resilient. I know it's tough but he'll be okay,” Paul said reassuringly.

“Says the man who took his children on tour,” she spat.

A pithy answer hovered on his lips, he swallowed it down hastily. The last thing they needed was another argument. He wanted to tell her he was sorry for the whole mess, but he didn’t even know what he was apologising for. She slid down off the toilet and sat on the floor, put her head between her knees.

“Kill me now,” she said weakly.

“You're going to be fine.”

“I know that, you bastard,” she said, but her voice lacked vitriol.

Paul sat down on the floor at the doorway, his hip complaining slightly. He put a hand on her ankle and stroked it gently.

“I ordered some soup. You can try to eat it later. Or some crackers. Did you take anything? How long have you been ill?”

Sam laughed weakly. “It's like the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Samantha. I'm trying to help you.”

“ _Samantha_ ,” she mimicked. Then she sighed, shut her eyes. Her skin was very pale, oily. She had dark circles under her eyes. “I love how you say my name.”

“Samantha,” Paul said again, softly. He leaned over, brushed her hair out of her face.

“You should go. You'll miss your flight.”

“I already missed it.”

She pushed herself up, leaned against the toilet. “Shit. I don't know what to say, Paul. I'm sorry. You're right. I didn't think it through. I didn't consider…” she waved her hand at him, “...anything. Nancy. The press…I didn't think of Jack.” She looked stricken. “How could I be so selfish?”

They were both selfish. That was the problem. They never thought of Cyn or Julian, of Jane and the other lads. They'd been the one exception to the rule in each other's lives for as long as they'd known each other. 

“You don't have to apologise. I shouldn't have said that stuff the other day,” Paul said. 

Sam shrugged awkwardly. “Well, you were right. It's okay. I learned how to say sorry. It comes with the tits.”

He looked at her, his mouth quirking into a half-smile. He'd never really thought of it that way, the idea that apologising was somehow a female thing. He knew John certainly never said sorry if he could get away with it. He thought of the “better than Jesus” situation where he and Brian had had to strong-arm John into apologising. He remembered Linda before she went. He'd bent his head to catch her words. “I'm so sorry, sorry, sorry, love.” As if she could control the cancer. As if she could decide not to die for his sake.

“I wanted to see you. Yes, you gave me the note but...I'd rather have it this way...Do you understand?” Paul said haltingly.

I'd rather have you this way than not at all. He'd said those words to John so many times over the course of their time together. He never dared to wonder if he was allowed to want more. Sam nodded, looked down at his hand on her ankle.

“Come on, get up, sweetheart. Soup should be here in a few minutes,” he said. 

He rose and offered her his hand to help her up.

When the takeaway arrived, Sam paid the delivery boy. She was stuck chatting for ages with him and when she walked back into the kitchen she was holding up a small brown paper bag. 

“They brought spring rolls for Jack,” she said, setting the food down on the counter. “They're his favourite.”

Paul opened the cabinet and took out two bowls. 

“That was very kind of them,” he said. 

“You have them. They're only good hot. Veggie. They love him there. He inherited that Beatle charm.”

“He certainly did. Now, get into bed straight away.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “I'm not that ill. I can sit. I just don't know if I can keep it down.”

“Get into bed. I always wanted to feed you like an invalid.”

“Sure,” she snorted.

“Right before…before the…I wanted to stuff you with calories. You looked…”

“Before I died,” Sam said. It hung in the air between them. He still couldn't say it. Couldn't ask her about it.

“Yes. Now, go on. Under the covers,” he said.

He managed to feed her about half a bowl of vegetarian wonton soup, breaking off pieces of dumpling and spooning them into her mouth. She didn't say much, and when she'd had enough, she put her head on his lap and shut her eyes. His leg fell asleep but he didn't shift her for ages, didn't want her to pull away.

Paul jerked awake suddenly. It was dark in the room, the dim light from the streetlamps shining in from the window, it was already night. He'd fallen asleep. Sam was sitting up in bed, staring at her phone.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Better,” she said, clearing her throat. “Liv sent a message. She got Jack to fall asleep. He's okay.” 

“That's good. It's harder for us than them, isn't it? In the end. Your Jack reminds me a bit of James,” Paul said.

“Yeah? I don't know much about him.”

“He's a bit like me. But with Linda's heart.”

“You mean he's not a cold-blooded prick,” Sam said with a sly smile. 

Paul shoved her gently. “You _are_ feeling better.” 

She stretched a bit, yawned like a cat. “Jesus, I stink. The stink of a night at Kaiserkeller.”

“Not nearly that bad. But you do have sick in your hair. Feeling up to a bath?” he asked.

“Aren't you leaving yet?” There was that teasing note again, the flirtatious sidelong glance.

“I want to give you a bath,” he said.

“Another one of your sick fantasies?”

“Humour me. I'm an old man with so few vices left.”

“Few vices?”

“Gave up drugs, hardly drink, gave up the boys…”

“Yeah…you're practically a monk. Alright, old man. Give me a bath. I'm a dirty girl.” She smirked at him.

In the bathroom, Sam cleaned the kitty litter while he drew the bath. Then she brushed her teeth and stripped off her clothing. She had bruises on her arms and a yellow spot on her shoulder where he'd bitten her days ago. He grabbed a bottle of bubble bath shaped like a Disney Princess and rolled up his sleeve to test the water.

“You've done this before,” Sam said, as he helped her into the tub. 

“Once or twice. Now. There are rules, you know. One: when I say eyes closed keep them closed. Two: don't drink the bathwater. Three: no peeing in the bath.” He ticked the items off the fingers of his left hand.

Sam giggled.

“Shhh, I'm not done yet. Four: If you behave yourself and let me wash your hair without crying, you'll get a present,” he explained.

“Do I get to choose the present? Because you once bought me a hamburger. I haven't forgotten… not exactly the best motivation at the moment.”

“Hush, you. You loved that burger.”

“I loved it,” Sam agreed. 

“Come on, lean back. Let's get everything nice and wet,” Paul said. 

She barely managed to stifle a laugh.

“This is serious, Sam,” he said mock-firmly. 

She arranged her face into a serious expression and he eased her back in the tub and then up again. There was a misshapen lump of soap in the dish near the faucet. He took it and raised it to his nose; it smelled like vanilla and oranges. Paul slid the bar over her skin, scrubbing her back and neck, his slippery fingers caressing her. Over her collarbone, along her shoulders. 

“Up,” he said, manipulating her arms over her head. 

He scrubbed her armpits and then down her sides, over her belly. All the while she remained silent, compliantly motionless. Back up again, his soapy hands cupping her breasts. He could hear his breath, ragged in his own ears. His fingers kneaded her flesh for a moment longer than strictly necessary, his thumb slipping over her nipple. Paul cleared his throat. He could feel the delicious stiffening of his cock, his stomach turning somersaults. He scrubbed the rest of her as quickly as he could, his eyes fixed on the soap in his hand. When he slipped his fingers between her legs to wash there, she let out a soft, high-pitched sound but said nothing. Paul took hold of a plastic pitcher she probably used to wash Jack's hair and filled it with water.

“Lean your head back, love.” His voice cracked when he spoke. Sam shivered under his hands. She complied at once. 

“I don't want to stop seeing you,” Paul said before he could change his mind.

Sam froze like that, with her head tilted back and her eyes shut. “Then don't,” she said softly.

He tipped the water over her head slowly, wetting her hair thoroughly. Then he poured a dollop of shampoo into his palm, slicked it through her hair, his fingernails scratching her scalp.

“It's not just…it's not an affair. I mean. It is…”

She didn't move or speak, her eyelids quivered. He massaged her scalp, working up a lather. He was so hard now, he had to reach down to adjust himself, leaving a comical foamy smudge on the front of his trousers.

“It's not just…fuck…it's not just sex.”

He turned on the tap, filled the pitcher with warm water, cradled the back of her head as he rinsed off the suds. Sam's breath was shallow, he could see the rise and fall of her breast. She opened her eyes and tilted her head up to look at him.

“What is it then, Paul?” she asked.

He gathered her hair in his hand, held it tight in his fist at the nape of her neck. Then he released it. 

“I don't...I can't...It's…I think about you all the time…just...constantly...” he stuttered. 

“It's okay,” she murmured.

“It's not. It isn't,” Paul said forcefully. “It's not.”

“It's okay,” she repeated.

“I can't stop seeing you,” he said. 

“You don't have to stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone still reading this! I decided at some point to go ahead and just go all out with it. Just put everything I could possibly want in it. 
> 
> The visit to the Laundromat is another childhood memory. A big part of New York living for anyone without a laundry room in their building.
> 
> Thank you so much to @whereitwillgo for reading and suggesting things and just generally cheerleading.
> 
> Thank you to @sunqueen78 for being so lovely and supportive! Hugs.
> 
> Thank you as ever, to twinka for reading and editing. Thanks for making that laundromat scene work. You're the best! And just being super sensitive and invested in my writing. I love that you're enjoying this. It's really my for fun fic!
> 
> I hope people are still interested because i still have a bit of story to tell.


	6. All The Sordid Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul and Sam continue their affair long distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Sam for the masses! I hope people are still reading this. It's been awhile! Probably most people gave up.  
> Please let me know how you like it.  
> Also. Be aware. Lots of smut. Even for my standards.

Slowly, Paul pulled back the covers and put his feet on the ground, carefully trying to avoid the spot that creaked. It was three in the morning. He slid his phone off the bedside table, searched for his slippers by its light. Nancy slept with a sleep mask like Holly Golightly in _Breakfast At Tiffany's_ so he couldn't tell if she was awake or not. Her breathing was steady, though. He felt a sharp twinge in his chest at the sight of her but in the end he got up anyway. He grabbed a jumper from a chair at the foot of the bed and pulled it on; it got chilly at night. Then he crept downstairs to his music room, locked the door and sat behind the drum kit. He waited a moment before pressing the call symbol next to the name he had saved her number under, his heart going like crazy as though he was fifteen rather than seventy-five.

“Hey!” Sam's voice was full of surprise and delight. She sounded a little buzzed. “What are you doing up? It's past three AM there!”

“Shall I hang up, then?” Paul teased her. 

“No! I missed you!” she laughed. “I was just out with Liv and her boyfriend. Liv asked her sitter to watch Jack and Noah. I think they were trying to cheer me up. I had way too many Peronis.”

“And me not there to take advantage!” Paul said.

“And you not here…” she agreed. “No, really. What's wrong? Couldn't sleep?”

He hesitated a moment before answering. Much as he would have liked to stay with her longer after the food poisoning thing he had had to fly back to London, to his wife, family and slew of commitments. He told himself they were both adults. They walked into this with open eyes, aware of the risks. At first they made a concerted effort not to message constantly. That lasted about half a day. Soon it was one call and messages. Now he was up in the middle of the night, locked in his music room clutching his phone, half aroused just listening to Sam's voice. In some ways, this affair was easier than he thought it would be. In others, it was harder. He was used to lying about John. He was accustomed to keeping part of himself hidden. He wasn't particularly good at the lying, nor was he good at denying himself things he wanted. 

“I know I said I wouldn't be back this month…” he began.

“But…” Her voice trailed off.

“But…I don't want to wait that long.”

It shocked him how much he missed her. Sometimes he'd be fine, keeping busy. Taking meetings and working on the new album. He had a bunch of promotion stuff coming up and some interviews. He'd finally agreed to do something for television he thought might be fun. And then several secret concerts and the upcoming tour. He had enough to keep him busy. Then it would hit him how far away she was. That they were wasting precious time being apart. 

“Oh, god,” Sam said.

Her tone struck a chord of fear in him, suppose she'd changed her mind? Suppose the age difference was too big to deal with? Suppose she was throwing him for a curveball like John always did. 

“What? Not what you wanted to hear?”

“The opposite! Just what I wanted to hear,” she breathed.

“Good. Good!” he said, so relieved he could hardly breathe. “Did you get all dolled up?” he asked, changing the subject, trying to get that moment of fear behind him as fast as he could, sweep it under the carpet.

“Dolled up?” she asked.

“For your night on the town with Liv and...what was the boyfriend’s name again, love?”

“Rafael. He's a sweetheart. A real gentleman,” she gushed.

“Is that so?” Paul asked somewhat sulkily.

“It is. He'd do anything for her. It's sweet. But you don't have to worry. You know I love a scoundrel,” Sam assured him.

“I am a genuinely nice person,” Paul protested. 

“You're a scoundrel disguised as a nice guy. My favourite,” she said soothingly, drawing out the last word in a singsong voice.

“Since I'm such a heel, I might as well tell you what I'd do to you if I were there,” he said.

“What would you do?” she asked a trifle breathlessly. 

His stomach flipped, he pictured her sprawled on her couch in a brief summer dress, bunched at the hips, her cunt on display, one strap off hanging off her shoulder revealing the curve of her breast.

“I've been dreaming of your tits,” he confessed. “I feel like I didn't pay enough attention to them when I had the opportunity.”

“I feel like you were downright negligent,” Sam agreed. “I'll give them a squeeze for you. It's only fair.”

“Will you? Right now? Underneath your clothes,” he instructed her.

“Okay. Under my dress. My nipples are so hard,” she informed him.

“Ah, Sam!” he practically sang. “I'd kiss them. Equally. No favourites. I'd suck them.”

“Well. I think really other parts of me need attention, too. I want you to feel how wet I am.” She said it so casually, not a hint of embarrassment. Phone sex could be so awkward but she didn't seem bothered in the slightest. 

“I want to,” he assured her. “I want to put my tongue there. Inside you. Put your finger there, instead,” he directed her.

John hadn't been particularly embarrassed, either. On tour he'd sometimes liked to call Paul when he was sharing with Ringo or George.

“I'm pulling it out. It's, you know, semi-hard, like a marshmallow, no...now it's harder, harder… hardest. I'm just putting the tip in me mouth now. Sucking it like a popsicle.”

John had had a knack for being seductive and playful at the same time. Paul would be laughing one minute and then the next he'd be so worked up he could barely sit still. And John in the next room. So close.

“Now, go to the bathroom,” John would command him. “Toss yourself off.” Then he'd hang up without even saying goodbye.

He could tell from the sound of her breath she had done as he instructed. 

“Hard to do this and hold the phone,” Sam gasped.

“I want to do it to you. I will soon enough,” he whispered even though the room was soundproof. His cock was stiffening in his pyjama bottoms. 

“Are you hard?” she asked. “Are you touching yourself?”

He pulled down his pyjamas bottoms, stroked his cock imagining it was her. They stopped talking for a moment, the sounds of their escalating breath explosive in his ears. 

“Fuck!” Sam groaned at last. 

He pictured her flushed, her eyes glazed over with pleasure. He wanted to slide a hand between her breasts, feel the damp of her sweat. He imagined her thighs trembling, her cunt tightening around him. He leaned forward against the tom-toms, his head briefly colliding with the ride cymbal. The crash seemed to announce his release, a moment later he came all over his hand. 

After that they couldn't seem to stop themselves. He was always messaging Sam. Mary remarked he was addicted to his smartphone. Stella threatened to take it away. He sent her pictures of his surroundings, messaged her in full view of family, friends, producers, journalists. They got more and more daring.

_What are you wearing?_

_Come on. I'm in a meeting. Bored out my skull._

_only boring people are bored. I have a breakfast job: white shirt, black skirt, apron_

_You're no good at this game. You're meant to send a pic, as the kids say._

They'd agreed early on they'd just message. They'd agreed to delete everything. They wouldn't take unnecessary risks. It didn't take long before he was begging her for photos. She sent one of her chest, the white shirt and black tie. Then another of her thighs encased in flesh-coloured tights, her skirt tantalisingly brief. Paul cleared his throat, he looked up from his phone and made a noncommittal sound at the speaker. Modern technology would be their downfall. 

_I expect something in exchange, baby_

_In just 2 weeks. Over in a flash. Or I could push the trip ahead._

_Fuck, you're into me. :-D ♥ ♥ ♥ :-P ♥_

_And now she hits me with the emojis. Trying to remind me how old I am._

_you're a silver fox_

_Okay. What do you want? You're all flattery when you want something._

_just cancel everything and fly back today_

_Oh just cancel everything, yeah?_

_yeah yeah yeah_

He smiled to himself, typed in the next words imagining her reaction. Some days he thought about buying her a ticket, telling her to drop everything and come to him. He didn't think she'd accept if he did. It wouldn't be clever. Not clever at all. Besides, wouldn't it be all the better when they finally met again? He wanted her so badly he ached all over.

_Just quit your job and come here._

_sure. that's a great plan_

_Suit yourself._

_what will you do? keep me in your music room?_

_Wouldn't be the first time._

_where will I keep Jack?_

_It's a big house, Sam_

_I know. I used to stay there all the time._

He scrolled through his calendar, mentally ticking which commitments he could shift. He could make it work, but should he? Nancy had a girls’ retreat planned with Stella and a few girlfriends in a week, he wouldn't have to worry about her joining him in New York. He was surprised how calculating he could be. How deceitful. Sometimes he was pleased at how well that served him, other times he could barely look himself in the mirror. 

_I'll be there in a week._

_REALLY? Oh! Paul! Oh! Sweetheart!_

_One condition, though. You're not to get off until we next meet._

_Are you fucking CRAZY?_

_Promise me._

_Say please with sugar on top._

_Please, sugar._

She eventually promised she'd do what he asked. He had to admit every time she complied to his demands it sent a little thrill through him. Sometimes he liked it even better when she didn't comply. 

She told him she painted her bedroom sky blue to keep herself busy. Sky blue with a mess of clouds. When she sent him a photo of it he thought he recognised himself painted among the clouds, as he'd been at twenty-four. She sent him pictures before and after, everything draped in plastic and a headless selfie, naked beneath baggy overalls. He could see the shape of her breasts beneath the bib. Her skin was smeared in blue paint like a Pictish warrioress. The sharp line of her collarbone made him desperate to press his lips to it.

_You better be deleting these._

He didn't delete them, though. He put them in a protected file, instead, along with all of the other photos she'd sent him. It wasn't clever and he knew it. His favourite was a selfie of Sam dressed in a baggy T-shirt, her hair tangled and eyes sleep-crusted with Dragon draped over her shoulder like a fur stole, his head resting on her breast. Lucky bastard. He'd never seen her dressed to the nines before, “all dolled up” but he couldn't imagine she'd look any more beautiful than in that photo. 

There was something about an affair that made you want to go out and go shopping. He had to buy new clothes anyway, what with all the upcoming events. That's what he told himself when he bought the blazer the exact colour of Sam's bedroom wall. It suited him. And he had to congratulate himself on how clever he was. Wearing it made him feel closer to her but no one else would suspect a thing. Nancy remarked upon it at once.

“It's very bright! Isn't it? Youthful.” She gave him a little elbow in the ribs and smiled. 

“I am youthful,” Paul said with a pout. “I look fantastic for my age.” 

“You look fantastic at every age, my love,” Nancy said. 

He knew it was horrible to treat Nancy this way. She hadn't done anything wrong but he just couldn't help himself. He'd figure it out later. He just needed to see Sam again. Then he'd sit down and work out how to make things right for everyone. 

The next two days before his trip he barely glanced at his phone. It was like saving your Christmas chocolate as long as you possibly could. When you finally broke down and took a bite the taste was that much better. John had always been the type to eat his chocolate in one go. Accordingly, Sam was gloriously agitated, her texts increasingly passionate. His desire for her was like a finely honed blade. And if desire wasn't enough he had the pills to help him out. 

He asked her to meet him at South Gate House by the reservoir. 

_you sure? people might be out Paul-watching_

He was sure. The thought of the excruciating discomfort of being near her and not being able to touch in public was enough to almost send him over the edge. It was pretty there, frequented by birdwatchers keen to catch a glimpse of the myriad of birds that made the spot their home. It had been featured in several films including _Marathon Man_ and _Breakfast at Tiffany’s._ Near the water with a fantastic view of the city, it had a touch of romance. Places like this reminded him why John had fought so hard to make this place his home. It was also very close to his flat. He'd wrestled long and hard with his conscience since booking the flight to New York and decided he couldn't possibly take her there. It just wouldn't be right. John had certainly refused to see him alone in the Dakota, possibly out of fear something might happen between them. Really, they were adults, he was seventy-five years old now. It wasn't as though they couldn't meet without tearing each other's clothes off, was it? 

He recognised her miles off and noticed he was half-sprinting towards her. She was sitting on the steps, looking down at her phone intently. She wore a yellow dress that made her skin glow and her hair was pulled up in a loose knot, a few stray tendrils brushing her shoulder. He wanted to take it down, slide his fingers through it. Just before he walked up to greet her he lifted his hands to his cap, made sure it was in place. 

“Hey,” he said. 

She looked up, squinted at him in the sun. The sudden movement of her head jerking up, the flash of sunlight on her neck made his heartbeat spike. 

“Hey, you,” she said, standing. He reached forward to grasp her hands and stopped just in time. 

They stared at each other for a while, grinning like idiots. She brushed a hand over his arm and then let it drop again, looked away awkwardly. “It's just like when we'd go on vacation apart and we'd have to get used to touching again, remember?”

He didn't think he'd have to accustom himself to touching her this time round. He was impatient, kept forgetting they were standing in plain view. They walked for a while in silence by the water. Every once in awhile he'd steal a glance at her. The woman who'd written him all those texts was gone. She seemed shy, a little uncomfortable. He longed to reach for her hand and squeeze it reassuringly. 

“I–“ he began. 

“I just–” she stuttered simultaneously. 

Then they both laughed. And fuck it, he didn't even care anymore. He took her hand in his, ran his thumb down the centre of her palm. She looked up at him, eyes wide, lips trembling, then she carefully pulled her hand away. 

“I did what you asked,” she said softly. 

“And?” 

“And fuck you, McCartney. I'm dying. Take me somewhere and screw me,” she groaned. 

He let out a bark of laughter like a car backfiring and she grabbed hold of his elbow hard. 

“People are staring!” she hissed at him, her eyes sparkling with amusement, though. 

His arm slid around her waist for a brief moment as if they were going to dance. It felt like someone pressed pause on the whole world. He was weak in the knees like an inexperienced teenager. 

“I forgot to do my laundry again,” Sam whispered in his ear.

He imagined pulling her down to the ground and pulling her yellow dress up over her head, burying his face in her cunt right there. She must have seen it in his face, because she gave him a dangerous look, her eyes flashing.

"Paul,” she said warningly. 

“We'll go to my flat,” he said before he could stop himself. 

He had had some idea they could go to a hotel nearby. He even had the address of one on a scrap of paper in his jacket pocket. But now that he had said the words he knew he'd always intended to take her home. There were all sorts of reasons they shouldn't go. All sorts of reasons he shouldn't even be here with her now. Anyone might see them together. Anyone might draw conclusions. He couldn't think of anything but putting his hands all over her, inhaling her scent. 

“Are you sure?” Sam asked. 

“I've missed you so much,” he said, instead. “I need…” 

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.” 

And that was that. They walked back in complete silence, not touching each other. He was afraid if he opened his mouth he'd say something he regretted. They walked through the door and he nodded at the doorman. A look passed between them he hadn't experienced in decades. Yes, mate. This is what it looks like. I know I can trust you to have my back. The doorman, Carlos, called the lift for them and wished them a pleasant day. When Paul reached for Sam's arm, he could feel her trembling. They stepped into the lift and he pressed the button for the penthouse. When the doors shut he turned to face her, put his hands on her bare shoulders. 

“Hey, what's wrong? Have you changed your mind?” he asked gently. 

She shook her head once. 

“What, then?” he pressed. 

He took a step closer, their legs were touching, his hand brushed her breast. He leaned in, pressed his nose to her hair. 

“Can't he...he can see us, can't he?” she asked. 

He didn't answer her question. Of course the doorman could see them. Paul was too distracted to care. Sam leaned back into him and all at once, without meaning to, he was cupping her breast in his left hand. He manipulated her against him so she could feel how much he desired her. Her eyes fluttered shut, her breath coming out thready. Paul slid a hand over her arse. 

“Fuck me!” he chuckled. “I don't think you've worn knickers once since I met you." 

She opened her mouth and then shut it again, as if thinking better of it, and pressed her body deliberately against his. 

“Why won't this thing go any faster? Goddamn it,” she moaned. 

She was so impatient, so deliciously turned on, she reminded him so much of John, he could barely stand it. He pulled off his cap, bent down slightly, covered her mouth with his own, cameras be damned. In fact, the thought that somebody might be watching heightened his arousal. He wondered if she felt the same. They arrived at their floor and the doors slid open. He didn't let go of her, he was still kissing her as they made their way to his door. He got it open somehow, one hand fumbling with his keys, the other with the ties on her wrap around dress. They stumbled into the flat just as he got her dress open. The garment fell open and he could see her naked breasts, the dark nipples, the curve of her freckled thighs. 

“Oh, Sam...Sam. How did I last this long?” 

She didn't answer, just reached down to rub his hard cock through the fabric of his trousers. She let out a squeak of strangled desire. 

“Just...just…” she groaned, pulled open his belt and ran her hands up his chest displacing buttons. 

He grabbed her, lifted her into his arms. 

“I'm much too heavy!” she protested. 

Ignoring her objection, he carried her the short way to the small sofa in the hall, deposited her there and climbed on top of her. She pushed down his trousers and underpants, took him in her hand and squeezed, as if to test his hardness. She was so wet he slid right in. As soon as he entered her she started to shiver, her breath coming in gasps, her legs wrapped tight around him, holding him in. He fucked her in short, awkward, desperate stabs, and before long, came inside her, laughing out loud with exhilaration. 

They lay there a while, his come leaking out of her as his cock softened. Her hands were in his hair, stroking it absently. 

“That was horrible,” she said. 

“What?” Paul laughed nervously, sitting up to look at her properly. “Was it?” 

She shook her head, looked at him from under her eyelashes. 

“I've been so turned on. You asshole. Walking could set me off.” 

He took her chin in his hand, tilted it up, kissed her lips tenderly. “That's fabulous, you know.” 

“As if you don't have enough women coming in their pants at the thought of you.” 

“You don't even wear pants. If I hadn't fondled every pair in your laundry basket I'd think you don't own any. It drives me crazy, thinking of you like that and me so far away.” 

“Why, Sir Paul, I'm beginning to think you've developed feelings for me,” she said flirtatiously. 

“You know I'm crazy about you,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her. “You know I can't concentrate on anything else.” 

She pulled her dress closed almost reluctantly. 

“Yeah. I'm sure,” she said. Her moods tipped so quickly he couldn't keep up. That, too, was a turn on. 

He took her hand, kissed the back of it. “Samantha,” he said. “I want to write you an album's worth of love songs. I want to turn back time and grow young for you again.” 

“I don't care about that,” she said seriously. “I just want you.” 

He leaned in, kissed her hair. “Let's get cleaned up, yeah? I'm afraid we've made quite a mess. And I didn't even offer you a drink first. I've no manners.” 

“None,” she agreed. “Wait till I tell the tabloids. He came in under a minute and didn't buy me lunch first.” 

He punched her shoulder gently. “Tell them I'm a good kisser, at least.” 

She shrugged at him as if to say she'd had better. Then he kissed her again and again as if he was trying to convince her otherwise, pulling her hair until she moaned. Satisfied, he released her abruptly and grinned at her. 

“Fine, a moderate kisser. What he lacks in technique he makes up for in enthusiasm,” she drawled, giving him a sly sidelong glance. 

“Liar,” Paul mouthed. 

He took her to the guest bath and gave her a towel to freshen up with. He washed up and tucked his clothes back into order. Afterwards he gave her a quick, distracted tour of the flat. It was just a New York penthouse, he didn't have any real emotional connection to it. Just a piece of real estate. She commented on every painting, every scrap of wallpaper and golden fixture. 

“What a douche you are!” she crowed. 

Paul imagined John saying that with the self same inflection, the nasal sound to his voice, the slight rasp. His eyebrows rising just as Sam's were now. 

“Comes with the knighthood,” he explained. 

“Too right!” she said smugly. 

She seemed quite taken with the kitchen with the black and white tiles, the massive wood cabinets and counter space. She ran her hands over everything like a cat claiming her territory, hopped on the counter while he fetched her a glass of water. 

“This room isn't bad,” she said, taking a sip from the frosted glass. 

He settled between her knees, brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. 

“We bought it for the wrap around balconies. And the building was built in 1967,” he explained. 

“You're so sentimental,” she said mockingly. 

“‘67 was a very good year.” 

“It was,” she agreed. 

He took the glass from her and set it down, then slid a hand under her dress to stroke her breast. 

“Haven't you had enough?” she asked. She sounded stern but pulled at the neckline of the frock so he could put both hands in, run his thumbs against her nipples until they stood to attention. 

“No. But I'll stop if you've had enough.” 

She didn't answer so he pressed his face between her breasts, kissed the angry looking scar there. Then he licked it, his tongue following the raised line of tissue, then veering off course to lap at her nipples. She hissed in pleasure. He pulled her right nipple into his mouth with an audible pop, sucked it hard while he kneaded her left breast. Then he switched. She tipped her head back, moaned his name. He grasped her hand, slipped it between her legs, covering it with his own. She was wet again, her slick covered their fingers. Paul pulled away from her tit to look her in the eyes. 

“Do it to yourself,” he said, rubbing her hand into her wet cunt once to demonstrate. 

She let out a hiccup of lust before obliging and he leaned back a moment to watch her. 

“No,” she said, her hand moving between her legs. “Come back here.” She took her left breast in her hand and squeezed it invitingly. 

Paul didn't have to be told twice. He strode over, took her nipple between his lips, his tongue flicking over it. Her head fell against his, he could feel her breath uneven against his hair, her chest rising and falling as she stroked herself. His worried each nipple in turn with his teeth, eliciting a groan of pleasure from her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her hand trapped between them, rubbing at her clit faster, more urgently. Then she grabbed hold of his head, pushed him down to her cunt with a whimper. He pressed his mouth against her folds, licked her slowly, his tongue flat and broad. Then he sucked them till she gasped. She was pressing herself against him, her hands threaded through his hair to hold him in place where she wanted him. Her hips tipped forward eagerly. He flicked his tongue tentatively at her clit and she let out a hiss. 

“Yes. Come on!” she groaned, her voice gravelly and tense with impatience. “Do it!” 

Paul laughed, his lips still moving against that sensitive spot. 

“Ask nicely,” he said, his words muffled between her legs. 

“Paul,” she wheedled, her voice sugar and spice. “Fucking do it!” 

She sounded so delightfully desperate but still so unwilling to say please. She rubbed herself against his mouth, released his head to grip the edge of the counter. Finally, he circled her clit with his tongue. She sounded like she was weeping with relief. He closed his mouth over her clit, gently at first. Then, encouraged by that sharp intake of breath, sucked her soundly till he felt her thighs quiver. When she came she fell forward against him, moaning his name against his hair. When he came up for breath, he saw her golden skin was mottled red and white, her freckles more pronounced than ever. She was leaning her head against the cabinet where he kept the muesli, her eyes shut, her lips trembling. He'd never be able to eat breakfast in this room again without blushing. She opened her eyes and looked straight at him as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Then she grinned. 

“What?” he asked her. 

She rolled her head from side to side, laughing joyfully. “Fucking hell, Paul!” 

“I take it you quite enjoyed that?” 

She swung her legs childishly and giggled. And for some reason, girlish as she seemed, she'd never looked more like John than now. 

He asked her if she had to rush home or if she had a bit of time for him. He realised he was perfectly prepared to go halfway across the city with her in case she had to collect Jack. He quite enjoyed the domesticity of the situation. It was a novelty these days. 

“Where did you stash Jack?” 

“With Liv. I had to take Noah last week while she went on a seminar Upstate,” she explained. “She didn't care about the seminar. She brought her man so they could pretend it was a holiday. So I'd say we're even,” Sam smirked. 

She wanted pizza and beer and she wanted a cigarette. He'd almost forgotten she smoked. She went out to the balcony while he rinsed his face and changed his shirt. Then he called Nancy. She was just about to go for dinner with Mary and Stella. He imagined her, sleek and perfect in her tailored clothes and polished shoes. Outside, on the other side of the glass door Sam was pacing, cigarette in hand. Her hair had freed itself from its confining knot and fell about her shoulders and her dress was wrinkled. Her feet were bare, there was a colourful bandaid on the back of her ankle. 

“I love you, too,” he told Nancy as they rang off. 

In that moment, Sam looked through the glass straight at him. She put her hand against the pane. 

“I love you,” she mouthed. 

He felt light-headed with happiness. How could he dwell on guilt when this woman loved him? This woman who held John's memories. He slid open the door and pulled her inside and into his arms. 

“Everything okay?” she asked. 

He couldn't speak, he nodded instead and tucked her head under his chin. She felt so soft in his arms, so fragile. He didn't know why, but all at once it struck him he might lose her. He kissed the side of her head awkwardly. 

“Hey,” she said gently. “That's all fine and good, but I don't have another fuck in me unless you give me something to eat.” 

Paul wanted to go to Joe's Famous Pizza. He hadn't been there since the mid-eighties when they were still at the Bleeker Street location. He'd been there before in ‘78 with John. Pizza and Fairytales. John had made a big fuss about meeting him. 

“Fuck off, Kojak!” Paul had said, slamming down the phone. 

He had spent a good hour alternately fuming and wringing his hands in misery and then John had rung him back. 

“Fuck yourself. And another thing…” John had said in lieu of hello. 

“What is it, Columbo? You forget to remind me how pointless meeting me would be? You don't eat pizza anymore?” 

It turned out he did eat pizza. He wanted to meet in Greenwich Village. John ate pepperoni sprinkled with enough garlic and chili flakes to make his nose run while Paul ate plain cheese. 

“I guess you're not planning on making a move then,” Paul had joked, wrinkling his nose at the smell. 

That night at home with Linda he'd still been able to taste the powdered garlic on his tongue. He wanted to go there with Sam now. He knew if they went there she'd understand what he was longing to tell her. They went through the motions of arguing over how to get there: call for a car or public transport. In the end they took a cab to Washington Square Park and walked the short distance to Carmine Street. 

“We need to go in here!” Sam exclaimed suddenly, pulling his arm and dragging him to a shop bearing a sign that read: House of Oldies. 

“You've made your bloody point, sweetheart,” Paul said, pouting at her. 

“Oh, come on, old man, I'll kiss your ego better later. I used to come here sometimes when I was...in the past. Or I'd send Fred,” she explained. 

He put his hand on her waist and leaned in to whisper in her ear. “I have something else for you to kiss.” 

She pushed him away playfully. “Behave yourself. Think of the paps." 

He shrugged and opened the door, stepped into the shop. There was a man wearing a cap sitting at a cluttered desk, doing a crossword puzzle. 

“John's other half,” the man said out loud. “Four letters. Yoko?” 

“Paul,” Paul said a trifle indignantly. He took off his sunglasses and folded them into his pocket. 

“Oh hey, man” the man said. He narrowed his eyes shrewdly but didn't change his expression. He looked back down at his paper. “What do you know? It fits.” 

Paul strode into the shop as if he owned it, scanning the bins of records until he found something that interested him. Sam trailed behind him awkwardly. When Paul chanced a glance back at the desk, he found the man wasn't interested in them at all. Paul pulled out a record and handed it to Sam. It was John's _Mind Games._ Sam's mouth quirked into a nervous smile. 

“I quite like this one. Some good stuff on there,” Paul said. 

“Do you, Sir Paul?” Sam's voice was very small, almost timid. She was looking at him in an odd way, face full of shy admiration. He realised she'd never looked at him like that before. Like a fan. Like a regular girl. She was putting on an act and he loved it. 

“Yes, I do. Though, _Walls and Bridges_ was better. Did him good to get away from New York, I think,” Paul said, his voice taking on a lecturing tone as if she was his pupil. 

“But wasn't he drunk the whole time with Harry Nilsson and Keith Moon? I read that somewhere. You guys jammed together once, right? There's a very bad recording.” 

He didn't think her eyes could get any wider. She seemed smaller, too, and younger. 

“That's right,” he said, as if he was going to give her a gold star. “But it was a mess. Shame.” 

“That's a shame,” she parroted.

“And the song ‘I Know (I Know)’ is about me, you know?” 

“Oh yes?” There was a sharp edge to her voice, a flash of defiance in her eyes. 

“Oh yes. He was apologising for ‘How Do You Sleep?’ He knew he'd gone too far. Now, have you heard ‘How Do You Sleep?’? I knew at the time it was just John letting it all out. Just how he was. Anyway, ‘I Know (I Know)’ was John letting me know he still cared." 

Sam had a fake smile plastered on her face. “Oh, I thought it was about Yoko. She was his muse, wasn't she?” 

“Well…” Paul began. “Certainly. But in this case I'm quite sure it was about me.” 

“And did you write songs for John?” 

“I did. Still do sometimes,” Paul said. He reached for Sam's hand and stroked the sharp bone of her wrist quickly. 

“Well, I think it's sweet!” Sam said chirpily. “What songs are about John? I mean. Do you have songs that are like… secretly about John? Our readers are particularly interested in that sort of thing.” 

She slid her hand over his bum slowly, her eyes never leaving his. He backed into the bins behind him, trapping her hand there. Then he tilted his head to the side to check if the clerk was paying attention to them. He still seemed oblivious. He didn't seem the sort to even own a smartphone. 

“Secret songs?” Paul asked, wrinkling his nose in mock confusion. 

“You know, something you said wasn't about anything in particular but it was really about John.” 

He turned towards a bin marked ‘P. McCartney solo’ and shuffled through the albums until he found _Press To Play._ He slid the inner sleeve out of the cover and flipped it till he found what he was looking for. He tapped his finger over the lyrics printed there.

_Something special between us,_

_When we made love the game was over._

_I couldn't say the words,_

_Words couldn't get my meaning through,_

_So I keep talking to you…_

_However absurd, however absurd...It may seem._

Sam's face was very flushed, every freckle pronounced.

“‘However Absurd’,” she read. “1986. Six years after. After…”

“Yes,” his voice came out hoarse in spite of himself.

“I love that song,” Sam said, her tone reverent. There was an expression on her face, far away, dreamy and plainly genuine. She cleared her throat. “I want to kiss you,” she whispered.

Paul took a step towards her, his hand sliding up her bare arm. He marvelled at the tension between them, undiminished despite all those years, despite lawsuits and death. Despite having messed around twice already that day.

“If you're looking for something particular, let me know!” the clerk called out.

“Thank you,” Paul said in a tone that was polite but implied he'd like to be left alone.

Paul waited until the man looked back down again before he took Sam's hand and kissed her palm. 

“Why, Mr. McCartney!” Sam said under her breath.

“What happened to Sir Paul? I liked that.” 

“I bet you did,” she mouthed. 

“What else are your readers interested in, Ms. Vogel?” he asked, kissing her hand again.

Sam cleared her throat. “Well, they're just very interested in John. Like, do you think he'd be knighted by now had he lived?”

“That's an interesting question. Considering he returned his M.B.E. I doubt he'd have accepted the honour.”

“Hmmm. That's a good point,” she said, idly flipping through a stack of 45s. 

“Now, I have a question for you, Ms. Vogel. All these questions about John. Do I detect a bit of favouritism on your part? Shouldn't journos be objective?”

“Oh!” Sam laughed girlishly. “You caught me out! I hope I haven't offended you!”

“Not at all. You know, my first wife, Linda, preferred John as well at first,” he said with a grin.

“Did she? Well, girls do love their bad boys,” Sam said. 

Paul turned towards her, shuffled through the records so their hands brushed. 

“They do,” Paul agreed. “But I made a good run of it even so.”

“Oh look, ‘She Loves You’,” Sam said pulling out the 45. “That's one of yours, isn't it?”

“Readers are still fascinated by who wrote what, I take it?”

“Oh yes, absolutely. The whole thing with you two and the joint credit is just…well, it's very romantic, isn't it?”

“I'm not sure romantic is the right word…” he said stolidly but he gave her a wink.

“Well, I always thought it was. But you do fine on your own, I'm sure. Can you give us a hint what to expect from your new album?” she asked, breathless with mock admiration.

“I do have a quite modern sounding one called ‘Fuh You’,” he informed her.

“Fuck you?” Sam said out loud, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh! Pardon me! I thought you said fuck you.”

“Is that what you heard?” Paul gave her smirk. 

“Don't suppose you could give me a sneak preview?” Sam asked with a lascivious grin. 

“We'll see. If I like what you write about me…”

Sam stuck her tongue out at him and wiggled it.

“Quite a few celebrities shopped here over the years, you know," Paul said. “You should ask the nice gentleman if John ever stopped by...that would be...oh...years before you were born, wouldn't it? You ought to find a nice young man your own age, love.”

“The Beatles are ageless,” Sam said and strolled over to the desk, provocatively swaying her hips.

While Sam asked the clerk—Paul was fairly certain he was the owner of the store—about John, Paul took the 45 of “She Loves You” and stuck it under his jacket with one smooth motion. 

“John Lennon? Yeah, sure I had John in here a few times. Buying 45s for his jukebox. He was nice. Generally the bigger the star the nicer. Say, man. Is it true you bought his jukebox in an auction?” He addressed that last to Paul, looked right at him from under the brim of his baseball cap.

“That's right,” Paul said warily.

“Cool. Some of those records he bought right here,” the man said.

Paul liked the guy's style, he almost felt bad for nicking the record. 

“Did you see anything you like?” the man asked. He looked sideways at Sam once but didn't say a thing, his face perfectly neutral.

“Yeah, I'll have that Arthur Alexander there,” Paul said, pointing to the 45 hanging on the wall.

“Sure, man. You guys did that one too, ‘Anna (Go To Him)’. I liked John's vocals. Let me just ring that up for you.”

“You know, John had a terrible cold that day,” Paul said to Sam, who raised her eyebrows in interest and smiled vapidly.

Paul paid the man, waving away his change and insisted on signing something. The guy had a magazine with an article about Paul and he signed the photo of himself with a flourish. It was about eighteen years old; back then he'd still been seeing Heather, not even married to her yet. Sam was reading all the captions, he could tell. They hadn't even discussed Heather. He wondered what she thought about that part of his life. He'd always wondered what John would have said about her. 

“Thanks,” the shop owner said. “This goes on the wall.” 

They left the shop in silence, not daring to look at each other lest they burst into laughter. When they got to Joe's Pizza only a few buildings down, Paul showed her the stolen 45. 

“You!” Sam exclaimed, shoving the record back under his jacket. “What's gotten into you?”

He dipped his face down, brushed her earlobe with his tongue for a fraction of a second. “You,” he whispered. He took her handbag and shoved the record into it. 

She flushed scarlet, he wanted to kiss the tip of her nose. He wanted to hold her hand on the street and not have to worry about being spotted. The last time he was here with John it was a similar situation. John and Paul eating pizza, dressed in their best disguises, trying hard not to touch. 

They both ordered plain cheese this time, Sam eyeing his slice with interest. 

“That's not vegan cheese, you know,” she said with a sly sidelong glance. 

Paul shrugged at her. “It's vegetarian, I never said I was vegan. Someone reads the gossip sites,” he said with a grin.

She punched his arm. “You just let me believe that, you asshole.”

He laughed under his breath. “You seemed so sure of yourself. I didn't want to correct you.”

“Since when?” she muttered darkly.

Paul waved his paper plate at the pizza ovens. “Remember this? Remember coming here?”

“I remember,” she said, grabbing her grape soda and her paper pizza plate and a whole wad of napkins. 

She led him to a small square with a fountain and a cluster of benches and sat down to eat.

They’d stood that day, decked out in glasses and hats, giggling like kids at all the hippy types staring at them trying to figure out who they were. Paul had gotten pizza grease all over his face and hands and escaped to a nearby bar to clean up. He'd just about finished rinsing off the soap when he felt someone press against him from behind, hands gripping his shoulders and then, before he could react, John's mouth on his, hot, needy, fragrant with garlic and chili. There had been so many thoughts crowding him at that moment, his mind already sprinting ahead to some cheap hotel where he could take John in his arms. He'd started to say he wanted go somewhere, he wanted him. Fuck it, he'd wanted to drop everything and never look back. Then John had kissed him again, the fabric of his coat clenched tight in his fists. Paul had pressed his hand to John's groin, felt how hard he was and in that instance the moment was over. 

“I remember,” Sam repeated, looking down at her plate trying to figure out the best way to pick up her slice of pizza. 

They ate in silence for a while. Sam had a smudge of grease on her cheek and he leaned in to wipe it away. 

“I thought…I was scared, okay?” Sam said. “I thought if we went somewhere together…I wouldn't be able to…when you left again...”

He wished he could tell her he wouldn't have. He wished he could tell her there was a happy end in store for them.

“Pizza and fairy tales, Paul,” Sam murmured sadly. 

“Look, I was scared, too. I still am. You don't think I'm scared? What happens when you wake up and realise I'm an old man? That you're wasting your time? What happens when you leave me? Why is it different now that it's almost over?”

“It's not almost over!” Sam exclaimed. She set the plate with the crusts and her greasy napkin aside. “And...What's…what's different? I'll tell you. I'll tell you what's different. I'm a woman. That's what.”

“That's not true!” 

“But it is. It's true. If I had been born a man again...would you be here?”

“It didn't stop me the first time, did it?”

Paul tried to be honest with himself. He tried to imagine a young man where Sam now sat across from him. John, right before he died, the filigree of creases in the corner of his eyes, the beaky nose and delicate mouth. He remembered the constant fear of being caught. He was an old man now, born during the tail-end of the war. Things between two men weren't simple then. They still weren't, no matter how tolerant society seemed. Despite the rainbow flag he draped over his shoulders on stage. The truth was if he came clean about his relationship with John there would be an uproar. They'd burn their Beatles records again. An aging star screwing a much younger woman would be out of the papers in a few months.

“Look, it doesn't really matter. I'm a woman. We're here now. I'm not going anywhere this time.”

He put his hand on the bench beside hers. Their fingers were touching. He felt a strange chill pass through him and shook his head to clear his fuzzy mind. Being with John was like being intoxicated. He was afraid all at once—much as he had been in India—that he'd spend the rest of his life like this, like that first acid trip. Soaring with no way to brake. Ecstatic and then covered in despair. Everything with John was either too much or too little. They became something else when they were together. Lost a sense of individuality. Paul wasn't sure he wanted that part back. Sam was a different story. She left space for him to be Paul. Was it because she was a woman? Maybe. Was it because she wasn't John?

“Tell me something—”

“—only John would know,” she finished and crumpled the soda can in her hand irritably.

Paul nodded, his expression sheepish. 

“Aren't you convinced yet? You think I'm making it all up? All of it?” She sounded exasperated, almost angry, her eyes flashing as she intoned each word.

“Sam…” he said softly.

“No. I mean it. You said you want to keep seeing me. I've been waiting for you for weeks. What's changed? I was thirty-seven years younger when you couldn't get through the day without hearing my voice. I'm still thirty-seven years younger. I'm still John. If you don't believe that what are we doing? Cause I thought I was trying to be with the love of my life,” she said bitterly.

“You have to understand…” he protested.

“I understand. It's insane. It's impossible to wrap your head around. But fuck! I don't know what else to tell you! I'm sick of John. I'm sick of sharing you with him.”

Paul tilted his head to one side, opened his mouth to reply. 

“I fucking know it's stupid to be jealous of myself, okay? I'm jealous of him, of…of…her.” She waved her hands in direction of Uptown. “I'm jealous of you. I'm still jealous of Linda. I hate every slut you ever looked sideways at since 1956!” she cried.

Her eyes were red. He could see that even in the half-gloom. She blinked rapidly and covered her face with one hand. Paul took the crumpled can out of her other hand and set it down on the ground.

“You don't have to be jealous, you know,” he said gently.

She didn't remove her hand, he could see tears sliding down her face behind it, pooling on her chin.

“Sam…sweetheart…” He took her hand in both of his own. “I'm sorry…”

“I'm not sad. I'm just so…angry,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

“I'm an idiot. I do believe you. I just…I thought you liked talking about before. I thought…” He wished he could unspeak those stupid words. 

“It's so unfair!” she exclaimed. “I don't…I'm not angry with you. I'm angry at the whole stupid situation.” 

She wiped her face on her arm and Paul handed her a clean pizzeria napkin. 

“This is you not angry with me?” he said, a weak attempt at humour. 

She rolled her eyes at him. “Okay. Maybe I am a bit angry. Maybe I'm…you want something only John would know? How about you could never say it?”

He didn't have to ask her what she meant. He folded his hands in his lap, waited for her to strike. 

“How about in India? When you got so fucking upset over Yoko’s letter you broke up with me. In bed. Is that proof enough? Do you need more?”

It hadn't happened quite like that. Or maybe it had. He'd read that letter because John had left it out for him to find.

 _I love you, John._ That's what it said. _I know my love for you will be enough to show you don't need them. You don't need him. I love you. The two of us are strong enough._

Her love was strong enough to show him he didn't need Paul. He'd been so angry he hadn't been able to think about anything else. In bed that afternoon he'd let John blow him while the whole time he’d tried come up with what to say to really hurt him, to really cut him to the heart. He'd never intended to truly end things but John had told that Japanese slag about them. He'd probably told her how Paul never said those words. Not once in all those years.

“Is it still about that?” Paul asked, raising his voice. “Still? Would I be here if I didn't love you?”

“That's not…why can't you just say it? Why? You've been preaching this for decades. I'm here. I came back to you. I love you!”

“Please, lower your voice,” he said under his breath.

“There's no one here! I can't believe you!” she shouted, stood up abruptly and turned away from him. He grabbed hold of her arm, pulled her back down to the bench.

“Fine. I love you. Happy now?” he hissed.

She pulled herself free but didn't try to stand up again.

“No,” she said miserably. “Just. Forget about it.”

“You say you love me, John…Sam. You say that…well, this is me. You know me. This is what I'm offering you. Come back to the flat with me.”

She looked away, a thousand emotions working their way across her face. 

“Maybe we should…” she began.

Maybe we should have a break. Maybe we should cool it for a while. That's what he'd said. John had wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve, blinked in confusion. 

“But why?” John had asked.

“I need some time,” he'd answered. 

And then he'd flown back to London and John, abandoned and hurting, had made the break permanent. 

“No!” Paul exclaimed, his voice came out louder than he'd intended. 

He looked around to see if they were alone. A few passersby strolling on the other side of the street looked up but didn't seem too interested otherwise. Paul was in too deep to really care. Sam seemed taken aback by his fraught tone, his intense expression.

“Hey, calm down. You don't even know what I was going to say...” she said. 

“I know you. I don't want a break! I want you to come home with me,” he couldn't suppress that note of desperation, high and pleading.

“And you always get what you want,” she muttered.

“Not even close, babe,“ he said, his voice breaking.

“Look, I don't want to argue with you.” She lifted her hands in surrender.

“Since when? You're never done arguing. That's one of the reasons why…” 

“Why…you should go before someone recognises you,” she said quickly. 

“I need you to come with me,” he repeated insistently. “I need you.” He stood, held his hand out for her to take. “Come on!” He gave his hand a little shake, the acuteness of his distress made clear with that one simple motion.

She hesitated a moment and then sighed and took his hand. They walked back to Washington Square Park and hailed a taxi. As they slid inside, he pressed his mouth to her ear. “Thank you,” he whispered earnestly.

She didn't react to the expression of gratitude but she gave the driver the address and then leaned her head on his shoulder. He still hadn't let go of her hand. He pressed it to his chest.

“Jesus. I really upset you, didn't I?” she asked softly.

He shook his head, kissed her temple, then her cheek, then her lips. She kissed him back, her lips curling into a smile.

“I scared the shit out of you.” She leaned back and grinned at him.

He shook his head vehemently. “No harm done.”

She pulled her hand from his grasp, slid it down the front of his shirt, soothingly.

“Poor rabbit,” she murmured. 

“Rabbit?” he asked, laughing nervously. 

She curled her hand against his belly as if he were a pet she was stroking.

“Yes, poor Velveteen Rabbit. It's Jack's favourite book. About a toy rabbit who becomes real because a boy loved it.”

He felt his stomach tighten, his breath catch in his breast. She placed her hand over his cock, scratched him once through the fabric of his trousers. 

“Sam,” he said warningly.

He put his hand over hers but that didn't stop her. She rubbed the heel of her palm against his crotch.

“Hot in here, isn't it?” she said.

She leaned over him and rolled down the window. On the way back she put her head in his lap and put her mouth against his groin, her teeth grazing the skin just above the waistband of his trousers. She looked up at him and smiled coquettishly, pulled down the zipper slowly. 

He shook his head at her. “We shouldn't,” he mouthed. 

She didn't see it, she was looking down, pulling out his half stiff prick and wrapping her lips around it. He felt himself unfurl in her mouth. His hands settled on her hair. There was a plastic partition between the front of the car and the back and a TV screen showing advertisements and short clips from shows. Chances were the driver couldn't see them, he was concentrating on the road. Right? Paul recalled an article he'd read about New York cabs installing cameras to help prevent terrorism. He felt sick with apprehension and desire, his hands sliding down to grip Sam's shoulders. He was hard now, her wet hot mouth surrounded him. She took him as deep as she could, then pulled back again and she slid her tongue over the head of his cock until he stopped worrying. 

The city flickered in and out of focus as the cab sped homewards. It glinted, lurid with lights. The wind swept in through the window making Sam's dark hair dance. He could smell New York in the summer: the reek of garbage, tar, the scent of asphalt still hot from the brutal sun and Sam's perfume like dew on roses. She was sucking him so sweetly he had to struggle to swallow his sounds of pleasure. She gripped his shirt tightly, her hands balled into fists, wrinkling the fine material and for some reason that sight was what sent him over the edge. Paul bent down slightly, his lips at the crown of her head, soundlessly forming those words she so desperately wanted to hear as he spilled into her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> August was a very bad month for me. I found a new job and quit my horribly abusive one but i had to do two trial days as well as working overtime like crazy. This chapter sort of came out in bits and was just a mess for ages. There's a lot going on so it's still sort of a mess. So thank you to Twinka and Janescarlett for the beta and really helping me to give it form. Thank you to Whereitwillgo for the inspiration and for reading it in bits and pieces. 
> 
> Like a crazy stalker I looked up Paul's NY apartment. So that's based on reality.
> 
> The whole Joe's Famous Pizza part is for Emma. They filmed part of Spiderman there. Peter works as a delivery boy. I was just in New York last March and promised Emma I'd go there and take photos. The pizza is amazing. I figured it would fit right in with Paul's Pizza and fairy tales story. Joe's Pizza was founded in 1975 and originally was on Bleeker Street. I figured they could have gone there while John was alive particularly because he did visit The House of oldies to buy 45s. The owner's name is Bob. He really wears a baseball cap. 
> 
> The thing about a love affair is that they're set up differently than a conventional relationship. Aside from the cheating. The timing is different. The way time passes while you're together and apart feels different. While writing this chapter I really tired to make that obvious. Also the fact that ifJohn and Paul were involved they would have had an affair. Not only because they would have been cheating on their respective partners but because of their gender. I think it's important to think about that fact while reading this chapter. Paul and Sam are continuing that affair. There are obstacles involved: his wife and celebrity status, her child, the age difference. But really they're having an affair because that's what they know.
> 
> I'm slowly trying to touch upon the question of gender roles in the next chapters and I've already started a bit in this one. For those of you that are worried it's become pure pwp. ;-) 
> 
> Oh. I apologise for the crap emojis. They were supposed to be better ones. I didn't realise ao3 didn't do them! 
> 
> Please let me know if you are still enjoying this! Comments mean a lot. I was intending to continue it but would stop if it's not being read.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was a joke. I was talking about one of my all time favourite movies when i was a kid Kenneth Branagh's Dead Again. It's about love and murder and reincarnation and just for fun, as one does, i said: reincarnation AU where someone tells Paul they're John! Ha. Remind me never to joke...
> 
> Thank you to @whereitwillgo for liking this plot and helping me work out the details of Sam's existence. She wasn't Sam originally until @swaying-daisies gave her that nickname.  
> Thanks to Twinka for the beta. I thought I was in the clear and could safely ditch this plot bunny until you dubbed it: awesomely creepy . ;-) no such luck. Doomed. :-)
> 
> Thanks to @heybluejayway for the helter skelter theory. I've used it in fic before. It's genius.
> 
> The title is stolen from a song by Yoko Ono. Great song btw.


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